Two pale trees rise like quiet witnesses, their trunks split and leaning, as if shaped by years of wind and waiting. They hold the sky in fragments—blue laid on in restless strokes, scraped and rebuilt, carrying the memory of clouds that have already passed. Leaves cling sparingly, dark and earthy, fluttering between presence and absence, more suggestion than detail.
The land beneath them is layered and raw, painted in bands of rust, ochre, and mossy green. It feels weathered, almost scarred, as though the ground remembers every footstep and drought. Brushstrokes move laterally across the hills, pulling the eye toward a distant horizon where the earth softens and light thins. Nothing here is smooth; everything is earned.
There is a tension between stillness and motion—the trees rooted yet bending, the sky calm yet scraped by urgency. The painting does not describe a single moment, but many at once: seasons folding into each other, time compressed into texture.
Batemans Bay