I look at these intertwined branches and, at first glance, I see only trees against the sky. Trunks that split, arms that cross, dark lines drawn on a light background. But the longer I look, the more it ceases to be "tree" and becomes something else. A kind of free, almost nervous drawing, as if someone had scratched the blue with irregular graphite.
There are smooth curves and abrupt deviations, unexpected crossings, small voids where the sky breathes through the wood. Nothing seems planned, and yet, everything holds together. If I didn't know what I was seeing, perhaps I would call it an abstract composition. A study of lines, tensions, and improbable balances.
It's curious how the mind insists on recognizing familiar patterns. It tells me they are branches, leaves, growth. But, for a moment, I like to imagine that these forms are strange to me. In that case, they would only be scattered signs, an undecipherable language suspended in the air. Nature creates without aesthetic intention, and we, inevitably, seek meaning. Perhaps the beauty lies precisely in this encounter between chance and the human need to understand.
Regards
