Soft pastel

2025

In the fading light of late autumn, the scene is heavy with an unspoken sorrow. To the left, the birch tree stands, its branches burdened with crimson, orange, and gold leaves that seem to hang on by a thread. These colors, once vibrant and full of life, now feel muted, as if even the tree itself is tired of holding them. The leaves tremble, not with the breeze, but with the weight of inevitability, each one slowly letting go as though it is too weary to stay. Their descent is not a release, but a quiet surrender to the cold that is creeping in, a death of sorts—one that is as much emotional as it is physical.

To the right, the old staircase winds through the red-orange grass, its weathered wood cracked and splintered with age. The steps are uneven, broken by time, and yet they remain—silent, forgotten. They no longer lead anywhere. The wood, partly destroyed by the years, speaks of abandonment. It groans under the memory of a purpose long lost. The grass around the stairs is not alive with energy, but instead, lies heavy and crushed beneath the weight of its fading color. It is not just the earth that has worn thin, but the very air itself that feels as if it has grown tired.

In the distance, the old church rises, its red roof still bright but softened by the weight of time. The grey stone walls, though not decayed, show the marks of countless years—weathered, worn, and yet unwavering. The church stands not in defiance, but in resignation, as if it too has given up on the warmth it once held. The red roof, once a beacon of life, now seems dim against the grey, as though even its color is fading, tired from the years it has watched pass by. The church holds its place, steady and unmoving, yet it feels distant, untouched by the world around it.

This drawing is not about change or growth, but about the quiet resignation of time's passage. The birch, the stairs, the church—each element is a fragment of something that has been lost, something that is slowly fading away. The colors—red, orange, gold—burn faintly, like the last breath of something that is slipping out of reach. There is no hope of renewal here, only the slow, steady decline of all things that once held meaning. The tree, the stairs, the church—all are witnesses to what has been forgotten, what has been left behind.

In this landscape, there is no promise of what is to come. Only the weight of what has already passed, and the quiet ache of knowing that it cannot be returned.

24.7cm x 32cm