These two Chinese calligraphy symphonies by my grandma frame the portal through which I’ve often find my myriad of escaping light and sight. Her years spent perfecting and pouring her work onto these canvases is unfortunately a discipline that I have not put much time into keeping alive, but am rediscovering now. The dance of the brush, like exhales on paper.
I often wish I could speak to the previous generation more, but I'm thankful that they left so much of their souls within the art they've produced, the lives and joys they've sacrificed for the next generations to pave new light.
The new, reflecting on the blooms of the past, under the same swimming, ephemeral light.