I dreamed of an actress. Or rather, not of her herself, but of the sensation of her life—heavy and vivid at the same time. The color red dominated the dream: the color of passion, fire, and endless struggle for attention. It was the color of the scenery, the spotlights, and probably her lipstick, which she always wore even beneath layers of makeup.She stood between rows of buildings resembling rough, abstract stage sets. To the right—gloom and the unknown; to the left—harsh, almost screaming theatricality. And on her shoulder—a suitcase. Enormous, impossibly heavy, as if it contained all her roles, all her hopes, and all her disappointments. A suitcase she carries her entire life, from city to city, from theater to theater. You can feel her fatigue, her determination, her fear—all the emotions she so masterfully concealed behind a mask of confidence. This dream was about the price of success, about the sacrifices one must make for a dream. About how even the brightest stars sometimes feel lonely and exhausted, bearing the unbearable weight of expectations and unplayed roles.
Oil on canvas, palette knife
Actress
