Just 1,2,3
1 to 4?
it sounds like a 5 to me 7? just 1,2,3 wow magical! anyway.. in the midst of time there are 4 chairs missing 4 vases 4 vases broken. 4 tunnels opened 4 grapes eaten 4 quatrain read 4 birds just flew by the trees 4 colours added to the palette and 4 places he loves to touch her 5 1 to 4? it sounds like a 5 to me 7 just 1,2,3 wow magical! we might as well want to go back to 1 just make it 1-0 again 1,2,3 and in the midst of time 4 secrets have been revealed, but that person who concern is about is not even there. 5 it sounds like a 5 to me!
Thoughts during painting.. by Jennifer Verdieu
Girl with a pearl earring
She turns not to pose, but as if she’s just heard your soul say something. Her gaze is not an invitation- it’s an interruption.
The pearl floats like a quiet rebellion, a moon against the gravity of servitude.
This is not a portrait- it’s a memory you never had. A moment that exists between breath and recognition.she does not belong to the past- She is the question the present refuses to answer.In stillness,She is both object and observer. Silence hangs like fabric. And yet, she sees you.
Little monsters
The little monsters are not creatures. They are reflections.
Childlike in form, but ancient in feelings, Each one an echo of something hidden, Something we weren’t allowed to say when we were told to be good, quiet, pretty, polite.
They grin, they gnarl, they twist , Not because they are evil, But because they are true.
Their only questions are : what lives beneath the mask of normalcy? What if the grotesque is just the misunderstood poetry of an unloved feeling? These monsters are not here to scare you They are here to free you. To say: Here I am. Messy, sacred, laughing in your rules. And maybe…You’ll recognise yourself in the wild curl of a mouth, or the way their eyes never ask for permission to exist.
Starry night
The night doesn’t sleep- It swirls. It aches with memory, with movement, with everything we pretend the dark cannot carry. Each star echo, a wound lit from within. The sky turns on itself like a restless mind- a mind that has seen too much and still dares to shimmer.
The village below pretends to be still, but we know better. A portrait of the soul trying not to drown in its own seeing.
clear horizon
A line divides the world, not to separate, but to steady. Above it, the sky is a breath held too long; below, the land remembers stillness the way the body remembers safety.
Is it about distance? I’m not sure. Perhaps it is about what happens when nothing blocks your view. when silence stretches so wide you can hear your own becoming.
There is no storm here. Only the quiet terror of peace and the hope that maybe, this time, it will last.
The scream
The rupture, a soul peeled back to its rawest frequency. The figure is caught between the inhale and the scream, but the sound is not for ears- it’s for the skin, the stomach, the shadow that follows you home.
The sky bleeds in spirals. The air itself is warped with grief. This is not about what happened, but what couldn’t be stopped from happening again inside the body.
you don’t hear the painting. you remember it like something you’ve tried to forget.
The lines do not describe a world, They betray it. And the picture isn’t screaming, WE ARE.