Oil on kraft paper, 2m x 1m
Beaux-Arts de Paris

July 2022. The world was still masked. The studios of Beaux-Arts opened again, cautiously, yet within them: breath, brush, and becoming.
In just 20 minutes, Isabelle’s body unfolded across the kraft paper like a whispered melody—anchored in gravity, softened by light.

The pose is quiet but daring. Her back leans into the unknown, the legs stretched in calm defiance.
My strokes were swift, fluid—guided not by anatomy, but by rhythm. The green backdrop, somewhere between memory and dream, dissolves around her form like a meadow in the wind.

Her body is not painted as flesh, but as vibration.
The entire painting breathes in layers: the earthy rose of her skin, the moss and ocean undercurrents, the unseen music of that morning.

It was then I knew: gesture alone could speak.
And my fellow artists—one by one—came, paused, and watched.
We didn’t speak. We listened. To the green silence.