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Description
Gallery Note
The tomatoes were ripe and red and heavy with juice, and they sat in the center of the plate like something remembered from a better time. The vines curled around them in deliberate circles, tangled and strong, like the arms of lovers who hadn’t yet learned to let go. The yellow flowers were still there too—fragile and open, and you knew they wouldn’t last. But for now they held on. It was a good plate. You could look at it and feel the sun from the market on the Rue Mouffetard and smell the crushed basil on your fingers. In Paris, even vegetables have stories. You only have to be hungry enough to listen..
Artist Inspiration
And though no one speaks of it now, you carry it still—
in the color,
in the quiet,in the way your hands reach for the bowl when the garden is full.
by Paul Reeb Artist
Description
Gallery Note
The tomatoes were ripe and red and heavy with juice, and they sat in the center of the plate like something remembered from a better time. The vines curled around them in deliberate circles, tangled and strong, like the arms of lovers who hadn’t yet learned to let go. The yellow flowers were still there too—fragile and open, and you knew they wouldn’t last. But for now they held on. It was a good plate. You could look at it and feel the sun from the market on the Rue Mouffetard and smell the crushed basil on your fingers. In Paris, even vegetables have stories. You only have to be hungry enough to listen..
Artist Inspiration
And though no one speaks of it now, you carry it still—
in the color,
in the quiet,
in the way your hands reach for the bowl when the garden is full.
by Paul Reeb Artist