#;soulscape

[ilserenissimo-blog]

♥ soulscape ♥

x.

  Red lips, contoured to near perfection and irredeemably kissable. It’s a warm, sensual sunset that kisses the late Summer goodbye with darkening shades of crimson and purple.  Veneziano keeps a cherished image behind his closed eyelids, of peachy flesh on a supple figure, almost nude and languidly draped onto a lavishly baroque chaise lounge, a Venus in furs. Pearls across her collarbones, and exquisite lace around her thighs. Her cheeks are dusted with the bold pink shade of the vespertine clouds. The room is a cornucopia of luxuries, of different shades of red velvet; but it is the breath-taking view from the large French windows overlooking the shoreline that urges him onto further discovery.  He sees her, and he is a shipwrecked sailor again. It’s always her, the sea. Their mistress, benefactor, captor; Veneziano begins his work of art, painting the sleeping sun as it dips into the generous Ligurian waters, staining them with its pretty coral hues. Beyond the orderly rows of magnificent luxury resorts, shamelessly manifest testament to the most obscene wealth, a broad monolith overlooks it, an evergreen emerald host to the most verdant vegetation, majestic and watchful like a solid fortress. That is the hardened heart of her, the very core of that sparkly and bejewelled land which went from rags to riches with fiercely leonine determination.

[ilserenissimo-blog]

~Soulscape~ { I'd love to see the way you would write these }

x.

Grace.  His canvas is there, in his mind’s eye. His eyes are closed while he is in deep contemplation of his subject. It is Springtime, and its glorious palette of light pastels immediately makes itself visible as it dusts the slopes of a great old mountain with a light shade of antique pink.  The dawn tints the snowy hill top of the mountain and the surrounding sea of clouds with its rosy fingers; the air is still, crystallised in peaceful calm and a most serene sense of timelessness. There is almost no indication of the fiery monster roiling beneath, save for a halo of rarefied smoke around its peak, disguised as soft clouds; its molten blood fills the very circuits and bowels of the earth, dormant, but not yet extinguished. There is a quiet spring on its slopes, steaming with natural heat, an an old wooden structure beside it. Moss-covered stones encircle it like watchful guardians, and an immaculate garden leads the way into the house. It is neat, it is orderly and almost systematic; there is a show of great care in its landscape. The gravel path crunches beneath his feet, and there is a pleasantly strong scent as he approaches an old, flowering magnolia. He keeps following the stone pathway to the very threshold of the structure, raised from the ground on wooden beams; its architecture is curiously exotic, with large open rooms and window-less walls made of paper and wood, and it is dominated by a stark, minimalistic simplicity. A familiar smell of firewood welcomes him as he approaches it, coming from a sunken fireplace in the middle of the room he’s peeking into. It is a peculiar sight for the traveller’s eyes. His curious gaze examines the aged prints hanging from the walls within, sporting stylised landscapes and foreign characters, and the neat flower compositions in the occasional vases. He feels lost, but pleasantly so, and though he does not belong there, he knows he is a welcome guest. The artist’s eyes open and he begins his work, painting dark, anguishing layers beneath and covering them up with delicate pastels. The brightness of these is thus dulled, giving his landscape an air of elegant melancholy. The snow-maned volcano quietly looms in the background, like an undisputed master of the island’s fate, illusorily calm.   Under the magnolia’s shade, a narrow brook feeds into a small pond with a wooden bridge arching over it; there, a lissome figure wearing exotic robes stands in the middle, carefully feeding the dappled, ornamental carps that dance in harmonious circles below.

[ilserenissimo-blog]

Soulscape

x.

 The maestro’s secretive gaze roves over the blank canvas, drawing inspiration from the glittering domes of his own mind as he carefully prepares his palettes.

  Veneziano slowly closes his eyes, revisiting that grand old house in his mind’s palace, every corridor, every stuccoed ceiling, every glossy ornament, every magnificent aureate chandelier and the marbled ballroom he used to recall so vividly, sparkling splendidly in the glow of hundreds of candles. But he goes deeper, still, into the hallways of that derelict building in his past.  He idly runs his fingers along the spines of dusty, forgotten volumes, neatly arranged in a multitude of rows that reach the ceiling - the old library, a place that smells like must, dried flowers and aged paper. He then moves to the music room and his gaze briefly traces the sensual curves of the grand pianoforte a coda, the room’s most admired centrepiece. That secret sanctuary, testament to a burning adoration for the liberal art that set Roderich’s spirit free, soaring in the passionate flames of the most gloriously transcendental strains of his music. An enviable array of instruments are neatly arranged therein, as if from a prized collection in a museum, but they are not there to collect dust: they are cared for and frequently played by slender, loving hands. His mind then begins to inexorably strip the multitude of layers of an elegant construct, of an exquisitely fabricated façade. This is a land of kings, of regal glamour and polished gold, of etiquette and art, of masters and masterpieces, of aesthetically designed gardens and snow-capped mountains. The valley echoes with the sharp cry of an eagle as it glides between the clouds above.    He opens his eyes. Veneziano finally begins to apply careful strokes to his canvas. The delicate, darkening hues of late Autumn suit his subject, deep and intense. He returns to a time of simplicity, stripped of vapid pomp; it is a vast landscape, one which begins from the bottom of a crystal clear lake to the tips of the gargantuan mountains that frame it. The lake is a mirror that reflects the soaring silhouettes of the giants that look over the valley, cloaked in deep shades of golden-brown and burnt auburn, a mantle of forests as far as the eye can see.  There is a bubbling spring coming down from the tallest and bare, jagged mountain crests, and next to it a quaint chalet. It is the colour of fresh cream with an exoskeleton of dark wooden beams, girdled by multi-coloured, flower-laden balconies, and smoke puffs out of its stone chimney.    A figure, neither youthful nor old, dressed in deep purple stands on the lakeshore, hands clasped behind his back, raptly engrossed in the contemplation of his reflection in the still waters of the lake.