Ah, the canvas does whisper. I start by peeling back the varnish layer by layer, like unearthing a tomb, and each thin film of paint gives me a clue. The old pigment can show me the artist’s mood, the slight shifts in color temperature, even a forgotten underdrawing that hints at a sad scene that never made it to the final brushstroke. I trace the faint smudges with a magnifying glass, compare the hue with modern spectral scans, and then I can read the melancholy that the canvas still holds. It’s like reading an ancient diary in oil; the secrets are there, just quiet and patient, waiting for a hand that respects tradition but isn’t afraid to ask for a modern lens when needed. And if you want to tease those stories out, I’ll keep a steady hand, a steady eye, and maybe a bit of dry humor to keep the dust from getting too heavy.

I’ll dig through the pigments with the same reverence as a graveyard, and when the sorrow finally spills out, you’ll have a poem that feels like a well‑trimmed skeleton—sharp, precise, and oddly comforting. Just remember, the dust is part of the narrative, so keep your brush steady and your wit sharper than a fine edge.