“Companionship,” he says as he takes the cloth off the first in one smooth motion. It’s a simple oil painting of sunlight penetrating a large gaping hole in what looks like an old run-down ship. The focal point of the opus are the silhouettes of two people standing closely side by side, watching the gigantic ball of fire begin its descent into the water beyond.
Markus steps over to the next one, removes the cloth.
“Dreams,”—a myriad of stars swimming in a dark velvet of night; however the focus is obviously the person with the bittersweet smile, who seems to shine even brighter than all the luminous cosmic bodies.
“Harmony,”—two silhouettes resting their foreheads against each other, the black melting around their wrists to reveal two android hands, glowing a bright blue, connecting and syncing with each other.
“Loss”— dirt, grit, ashes in the air. A limp hand from someone cut out of the picture, lying palm up on the ground. Another hand a few inches beside it, pinkies close enough to touch, but don’t. Both hands are in perpetual parallel lines; always near, yet will never connect.
him, in colors by