Art of Intangible Means

By: Claire Kroening

In essence, time stands still on the artist's brush—draped mid-air to popcorn-canvas. Gulls cry their sailor's song, hailed mere echoes where the plundering train cars meet cerulean-tides. Mountains overturn townscapes. Time stands still, handed like pressed flyers to passing hands. Her palms are muted in a world threatening her resistance.

On the artist's brush, she recalls her home anew. Her humanity hung upon pristine-walls. Now, erased by masses. A doorsteps reach, and long-stretched fields, blowing strand by strand against spring's welcoming return. Time stands still. Is there such thing as stepping forward? Are days meant to sit in waiting for when deaf ears open? 

A sea of water-logged greys cover overhead, night falling too soon. Her brush stills on firestarters boom. Normality, a fickle medium to flower-pressed colors. Memories of air raids clog once mundane. Time stands still, or perhaps doubles over, when stars clear way for rubble.