Daughter of the Lake
1 700 €
Oil on Canvas
50x70cm
EXCLUSIVE COLLABORATION BETWEEN LINA REDFORD AND LANA TIKHONOVA. A UNIQUE PIECE, ARTWORK IS AVAILABLE ONLY IN ONE COPY.
Artwork is made at Lana Art-studio.
Two artists collaborated to create a unique fusion of palette knives’ strokes and expressive brightness of the layers of paint.
The original hand-made palette knife painting on a gallery-wrapped linen canvas. High-quality natural pigment oil paints are used. Does not require framing, ready to hang. Covered with dammar varnish to preserve color and protect from dust and moisture.
Beneath the weeping trees lay a lake dark as glass, holding secrets too old for prayer. From its depths rose a pale girl, her hair tangled with lilies, her eyes shining like drowned stars. Upon her head perched a black crow, silent but watchful, its wings folded like a crown of shadows.
She drifted along the water’s edge, her song no more than a sigh, and wherever her voice touched, flowers bent as though in reverence. Some said the lake had dreamt her into being, a child of sorrow and moonlight. Others whispered she was a soul returned, bound to the mirror of water until the crow released her.
Still she lingers half legend, half reflection waiting for the one who dares to look too long into the lake and see her looking back.
50x70cm
EXCLUSIVE COLLABORATION BETWEEN LINA REDFORD AND LANA TIKHONOVA. A UNIQUE PIECE, ARTWORK IS AVAILABLE ONLY IN ONE COPY.
Artwork is made at Lana Art-studio.
Two artists collaborated to create a unique fusion of palette knives’ strokes and expressive brightness of the layers of paint.
The original hand-made palette knife painting on a gallery-wrapped linen canvas. High-quality natural pigment oil paints are used. Does not require framing, ready to hang. Covered with dammar varnish to preserve color and protect from dust and moisture.
Beneath the weeping trees lay a lake dark as glass, holding secrets too old for prayer. From its depths rose a pale girl, her hair tangled with lilies, her eyes shining like drowned stars. Upon her head perched a black crow, silent but watchful, its wings folded like a crown of shadows.
She drifted along the water’s edge, her song no more than a sigh, and wherever her voice touched, flowers bent as though in reverence. Some said the lake had dreamt her into being, a child of sorrow and moonlight. Others whispered she was a soul returned, bound to the mirror of water until the crow released her.
Still she lingers half legend, half reflection waiting for the one who dares to look too long into the lake and see her looking back.
