First of all I love the composition and the abounding whiteness surrounding the character, which emphasize the sense of aloofness and isolation even more.
The wind seems to be blowing on his back and from the right to the left, giving an impression of melancholy, as if he was playing forlornly, his violin darkened by his own shadow, his eyes closed and inscrutable.
Yet the flock of white birds emerging from his truncated shadow spread over the overwhelming whiteness is ambiguous - they are flying towards the right and the observer may wonder whether they are devouring him from the inside or, on the contrary, a sign of hope, a token that his soul is still there craving something and taking flight towards it as the music fills the blankness and somehow transcends the loneliness.
Sherlock's expression itself is rather equivocal - his traits and posture exhale as much serenity as solitude, more calmness and aspiration than desolation or prostration. This is made obvious by the fact that he is, after all, playing the violin, and one cannot be entirely hopeless if they are able to create music.
And yet whatever he is giving - and the sense of donation is striking here, emanating from such a deprived character - seems to be leaving him behind, shrouded in his own darkness - his back resolutely to the light, his eyes closed to the one he is shedding away...
This is such an inspiring piece, and a worthy comment could only be conveyed through poetry.
First of all I love the composition and the abounding whiteness surrounding the character, which emphasize the sense of aloofness and isolation even more.
The wind seems to be blowing on his back and from the right to the left, giving an impression of melancholy, as if he was playing forlornly, his violin darkened by his own shadow, his eyes closed and inscrutable.
Yet the flock of white birds emerging from his truncated shadow spread over the overwhelming whiteness is ambiguous - they are flying towards the right and the observer may wonder whether they are devouring him from the inside or, on the contrary, a sign of hope, a token that his soul is still there craving something and taking flight towards it as the music fills the blankness and somehow transcends the loneliness.
Sherlock's expression itself is rather equivocal - his traits and posture exhale as much serenity as solitude, more calmness and aspiration than desolation or prostration. This is made obvious by the fact that he is, after all, playing the violin, and one cannot be entirely hopeless if they are able to create music.
And yet whatever he is giving - and the sense of donation is striking here, emanating from such a deprived character - seems to be leaving him behind, shrouded in his own darkness - his back resolutely to the light, his eyes closed to the one he is shedding away...
This is such an inspiring piece, and a worthy comment could only be conveyed through poetry.
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