• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 08
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Seeing Stravinsky

Dark greens, browns, earthy and thick, small shapes flitting away and hiding between layers of impasto colour, and I'm walking slowly, pushing past, searching for something perhaps, straining to hear the nightingale.

Next, warm oranges. Pastel blues, huge bold sheets like coloured glass moving into each other, shattering, reforming and growing. At the corner of my vision lines begin worming their way forward.

Then zig-zags: shooting stars condensed into thick cloud trails of pink white and yellow: a rush, fireworks, chaos against a cream sky.

The resolution is a static ladder, notes sliding down the rungs.