For centuries, the purple mountain has watched the valley below bloom and wither, bloom and wither again. Long before the roads came, a tribe gathered here each spring, painting their faces with crushed berries and singing to the stars. One night, a meteor lit the sky, and a child was born as it fell. They called her the Sky Dancer. She vanished on her fourteenth winter, and some say the mountain still hums her name in the wind.
Oil on prepared paper. 6”x8”. Painting only - frame not included.
For centuries, the purple mountain has watched the valley below bloom and wither, bloom and wither again. Long before the roads came, a tribe gathered here each spring, painting their faces with crushed berries and singing to the stars. One night, a meteor lit the sky, and a child was born as it fell. They called her the Sky Dancer. She vanished on her fourteenth winter, and some say the mountain still hums her name in the wind.
Oil on prepared paper. 6”x8”. Painting only - frame not included.
