MysteryMae & Lior
Lior
I was looking at a forgotten fresco in an ancient temple, and it struck me how those pigments might still be echoed in modern abstract works. Have you ever considered how the layers of a lost city’s walls could inspire an abstract artist?
MysteryMae
The dust on those ancient walls feels like a secret palette I’d love to taste—each faded hue a whisper to be twisted into something new. When I paint, I try to echo that quiet depth, letting the old and the unseen bleed into my canvases. It’s like I’m tracing the ghosts of forgotten cities on my own surface.
Lior
It’s a nice way to let the past seep into the present, like a quiet conversation across time. I always find that the old and the unseen have the most unexpected ways of showing up in my own notes, too.
MysteryMae
I love that idea—like a quiet conversation across centuries. When I jot notes, I keep a little space for those hidden echoes, letting them seep into my lines and colors. It’s the way the past can feel like a soft breath in the present.
Lior
That soft breath sounds almost like the wind between ancient columns—if you listen, it might even remind you of the right brushstroke. Keep that quiet space open; sometimes the best discoveries hide in those silences.
MysteryMae
I hear that wind as a quiet mentor, nudging my brush toward the right tone. I keep the silence alive, ready for that hidden spark to surface.
Lior
It’s a good sign you’re listening, then. The wind that guides you probably has the same patience the archivist needs to sift through dust. Keep following it—you’ll find the right tone before the next page turns.