The Rocking Horse

A winged horse stands with monumental stillness, its warm ochres and bruised umbers pressed against a stormy, scumbled ground that feels like memory rubbed into pigment. The red reins cut diagonally across the body like a wound or a tether, while the small wheels under its hooves turn myth into mechanism—flight imagined, yet deferred. Feathered wings dissolve into smoky blues, suggesting aspiration fraying at the edges, as if freedom here is not denied but negotiated with the weight of control and the theater of restraint.