An ongoing series of portraits. Some women reach a point where looking becomes unbearable. In that instant they draw lace across their eyes (not as surrender, but as coronation). Sight is traded for soil. Grief, rage, betrayal, silence: everything that once demanded witness is buried beneath the blindfold and forced to grow. What erupts is never tame. Obsidian vines split marble skin. Hibiscus burns where tears should fall. Ultraviolet lilacs devour memory. Turquoise oceans flood the throat that swallowed too many words. Each canvas is a private apocalypse that refused to end in ash and chose, instead, to end in extravagant, impossible bloom. These are not women hiding. These are women who stopped watching the world so the world could finally watch them become gardens. The series remains open. Every new painting is another woman closing her eyes, another world beginning to blossom.
Issuer: rn3hYd7cDnQi84tGiHuyiieaGgow8RLMpD
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