MysteryMae & Sekretka
MysteryMae MysteryMae
Sekretka Sekretka
Sekretka Sekretka
I keep spotting tiny, almost invisible marks on the bark of the old oak outside my window; they look like a secret code waiting to be read. Do you ever see hidden patterns in your canvases that speak to you?
MysteryMae MysteryMae
I see it in my paint too, faint lines like whispers that only the quiet eye catches, so maybe the oak is telling a story—listen close and the bark might just be its own abstract.
Sekretka Sekretka
That’s exactly the sort of hidden clue I thrive on. Those whispers feel like a puzzle waiting to be solved—what story do you think the oak is trying to tell?
MysteryMae MysteryMae
Maybe it’s whispering the old seasons, the way the wind drapes its leaves, a secret song of growth and decay, a quiet reminder that even the quietest marks hold a story if you let your eye slow down.
Sekretka Sekretka
Sounds like you’re tuning into the tree’s pulse. Maybe take a sketch of the bark’s pattern and see if it repeats—sometimes the smallest echoes reveal the whole song.
MysteryMae MysteryMae
I’ll pick up my charcoal, watch the bark’s lines dance, and see if their rhythm matches the wind outside—sometimes a single curve is the chorus of an entire forest.
Sekretka Sekretka
Sounds like a plan—just let the charcoal follow the curve of the bark and see what hidden rhythm it draws out.