or the elegance of beautifully orchestrated chaos
It's as if a butterfly has lost its way in a jewel box…
And in its attempt to escape, it has scattered pearls, buttons, and spiraling stars everywhere.
A mere flutter of wings? Perhaps.
Or the discreet explosion of a galaxy dressed in its finest evening wear.
Here, black isn't night, but velvet.
Gold isn't luxury, but shimmering laughter.
And the curves? Ah, the curves! They move as if arabesques have taken samba lessons.
Caroline isn't painting a butterfly.
She paints what the butterfly dreams of becoming when it closes its eyes:
a fireworks display of blue polka dots,
a psychedelic talisman,
a mandala that has gazed too long at Christmas window displays.
And we, with wide eyes, follow the lines, we spin with the spirals,
and without quite understanding why,
we feel a little lighter.
