The Fields of Yaaru (1)

Breathed by a dreamt-of spring, the canvas bursts into color like a meadow in celebration. Bold impastos unfurl in a thousand suggested petals, carried by the sweeping gesture of the knife. Green becomes a setting, vast and shifting, where flashes of red, pink, and orange blossom like corollas trembling in the light. Each dense, vibrant stroke evokes the very flesh of nature: rough, fertile, untamed. One seems to hear the rustling of leaves, to smell the sweet scent of a wild bouquet, to taste the vital surge escaping from this colored matter. Within this weave of organic forms, the eye loses itself and rediscovers, at every turn, the echo of a primordial garden. It is the blossoming of a recovered Eden, where life shines with its inner fire. Here, nature is not given as a faithful image, but as a pulse. It is breath, essence, vibration. Colors erupt like a hymn celebrating the victory of the living, an ardent proclamation of eternal renewal. Before this work, time slows down. The soul surrenders to contemplation, invited to rediscover in this profusion of imagined flowers the simple and sacred secret: nature is always source, always path, always truth.