War, and the pity of war
Notes for a picture I may never finish.
Background - a ruined landscape, the shells of houses. In one broken window a brightly coloured curtain flutters raggedly, bravely. Above, in a sky lit with a smoky redness, the ghostly grins of politicians, self-satisfied, and their dead, dead eyes.
Middle distance, right - a pieta. A woman holds a dead or dying young man in her lap, his head thrown back so that his gaze is towards the red sky and the grinning policians. He wears a uniform, but his face is almost that of a child.
Foreground - a broken doll. A rag doll lies sprawled awkwardly, one arm detached and lying some distance away. Her sewn face is still fixed in its smile.
Crossposted to
artspark
Notes for a picture I may never finish.
Background - a ruined landscape, the shells of houses. In one broken window a brightly coloured curtain flutters raggedly, bravely. Above, in a sky lit with a smoky redness, the ghostly grins of politicians, self-satisfied, and their dead, dead eyes.
Middle distance, right - a pieta. A woman holds a dead or dying young man in her lap, his head thrown back so that his gaze is towards the red sky and the grinning policians. He wears a uniform, but his face is almost that of a child.
Foreground - a broken doll. A rag doll lies sprawled awkwardly, one arm detached and lying some distance away. Her sewn face is still fixed in its smile.
Crossposted to
artspark
Comments
I've started dabbling a little with painting, but if something turns out well it's much more by luck than judgement, and seldom anything like what I set out to paint.
I've started a few sketches for this - if it gets any further I'll let you know.