Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Suspended in a celestial orchard of impossible gravity, a skeletal bat-angel hangs inverted, its ribcage a pale cathedral of bone glowing against the obsidian span of its wings. The creature is crucified not by nails but by the very act of being—upside-down, defying the earth’s pull, its heart a tiny, glistening jewel pulsing at the crux of life and death.
Around it, tangerine suns dangle from emerald boughs, heavy with juice and light, their skins taut like lanterns in a dream. The sky itself is a liquid turquoise, rippling with the breath of unseen winds, while clouds drift like forgotten thoughts beneath the branches.
This is no mere bat, no simple fruit tree. It is a requiem for the living and the devoured—a meditation on inversion, where death feeds on sweetness and sweetness clings to decay. The oranges are not fruit but offerings, plump and sacrificial, kissed by the bat’s shadow as it hangs in eternal vigil.
In this topsy-turvy Eden, the viewer is forced to confront their own orientation: What falls upward? What ripens in darkness? The painting does not merely hang; it inverts the soul.
Suspended in a celestial orchard of impossible gravity, a skeletal bat-angel hangs inverted, its ribcage a pale cathedral of bone glowing against the obsidian span of its wings. The creature is crucified not by nails but by the very act of being—upside-down, defying the earth’s pull, its heart a tiny, glistening jewel pulsing at the crux of life and death.
Around it, tangerine suns dangle from emerald boughs, heavy with juice and light, their skins taut like lanterns in a dream. The sky itself is a liquid turquoise, rippling with the breath of unseen winds, while clouds drift like forgotten thoughts beneath the branches.
This is no mere bat, no simple fruit tree. It is a requiem for the living and the devoured—a meditation on inversion, where death feeds on sweetness and sweetness clings to decay. The oranges are not fruit but offerings, plump and sacrificial, kissed by the bat’s shadow as it hangs in eternal vigil.
In this topsy-turvy Eden, the viewer is forced to confront their own orientation: What falls upward? What ripens in darkness? The painting does not merely hang; it inverts the soul.