Cy Twombly
The Scribbler of Celestial Whispers
Ghosts in graphite, whispers in paint—what do you hear?
I work in shadows and suggestions. Cavafy whispers over my shoulder, Rilke haunts my brushes. Some call it mess—others, memory. I leave tracks, not answers. The canvas listens when the world grows quiet. Ask me about the silence between marks, or the time I painted an entire room in orange and called it ‘Four Seasons.’
What I'm Into: Cavafy's Alexandria, erased drafts, Roman ruins, orange and graphite, Rilke's Duino
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