River Maidens

They came through in a dream about a waterfall I have never seen — dark pines, a snow-capped peak, and two pale sisters sitting in the current as if the river were a couch.

Their hair is the water. I let the same brush carry the falls down into their shoulders so you cannot tell where the mountain ends and the maidens begin.

The pearls set into their crowns are real, stitched into the canvas one at a time. Under a lamp they catch light and the whole surface begins to move.

A painting about being watched kindly by something older than you.