The moments in the nebula of the frame, the bleeding circles sparkled with love, and the departure of the woman’s gaze into the trembling of the soul, longing for the pleasure of eternal silence after the end of the race of looking with the arrow.
With her gaze looking at the vast expanse that goes beyond the space of the painting, the indifferent woman tries to feel some of the strands of her hair, resting on her shoulder, kissing some of her young body, immersed in the virtuality of the lower painting. The person looking at the painting envies those locks, despite the fact that fate granted them the privilege of basking in the softness of her feminine perfume that wafted from a brush that she spread throughout the surface of the painting.
To read in the eyes the witness of longing after an artist draws them is a reality, but to see a look out of the dark in a painting is impossible. This is what Vivian Al-Sayegh did. She painted a woman like a gazelle awaiting her hunter’s arrow with a look immersed in alarm, the awe of the sacred silence, and the ringing of stillness. Her imagination translated the impossible into reality, using the bristles of the brush.
Two eyes, taken by the heart with its ribs. The beloved came to her for a while and left and did not return, and her gaze wandered as she waited for him, while the arrow of death was knocking on the door. Those eyes, bleary from the satisfaction of longing, were not guided by the lights of love in the beds of passion to a new dawn in an unseen space. The soul was moisturized by stillness and silent glow, and water from the eyes began to cover the heart. The sight extended beyond what the eyes saw, because they saw nothing but a mirage.
Al-Sayegh painted from the purity of the paper and the forgetfulness of the glasses a ticket to space, which flows with the viewer in the light of fatons; Because it embodied the meeting of the eyelids with the eyes, drawing seconds without timing. The eyelids did not get tired of blinking, so she slept in a bed covered with eyebrows.
The water of familiarity left the depths of affection, and the brush did not paint the woman’s face with the shine of modesty. But she reduced her paleness to baskets of sadness, as if the disease had stolen the shyness from the splendor of her appearance.
Two lips that kissed the modesty of light, after the hearts’ voices played hymns, like the burst of passion in a lifetime awaiting the taste of witness. And circles performing ablution from the virgin light of a sun immersed in the eye of the target, and they do not realize that their position in the background of the painting resembles the erosion of the soul, after the bow pronounces the arrows of treachery.
Vivian Al-Sayegh wrote with a brush: Longing for Space, because it had become clear to her that not all birds migrate and return. So I painted birds and birds that accompany the space of the painting with the melody of beauty. And the tongues of light were captivated by the tenderness of colour. The memories turn gray, leaving a sadness that resides in the fabric, despite the disappearance of the darkness of the night from the clearness of the sky.
The madness of Vivian’s feather, fragrant in the green of the leaves of an earring, from which the ladybird draws the yeast of life; Loving a woman by hearing does not replace the wandering of the eyes. Because the purity of sincerity did not resonate in the ears, the sweet morning did not appear, and was hidden in Vivian Al-Sayegh’s imagination, behind bleeding circles from a wound underneath.
