There are moments when the forest ceases to be a place and becomes a state of being. When the light no longer falls—it burns. When the snow on the ground is no longer cold, but turquoise, almost alive, as if the earth were breathing from beneath.
L’heure pourpre is that moment suspended between two worlds: the fiery red of the trunks reaching toward the sky and the icy softness spreading at their feet. A silent tension. A visible oxymoron.
I did not set out to paint a real forest. I sought to paint what one feels when lost within it—that strange sensation of being both minuscule and exactly where one belongs.
