遺忘現實的編織者 The Weaver of Forgotten Realities

Every time someone stares deeply into Jane's work, they experience faint echoes - a snippet of laughter, a sudden chill, or the scent of rain on old wood.

2024.12.02

昏暗的畫廊中，回蕩著低語般的細語，模糊的影像在碎裂的肖像間閃動。畫廊正中央，站著珍，自稱為「遺忘現實的編織者」。她的作品不僅僅是藝術，而是一扇通往未知的門。每一幅作品都是時間與記憶的層層堆疊，模糊的面容、破碎的記憶和朦朧的色彩交織在一起。眼前的這張模糊肖像，輪廓柔化，宛如隔著時光的薄紗觀看。然而，珍認識這張臉；它曾在夢中對她耳語。

這次，珍創作的不僅是一幅肖像。畫中的形象由淺淡的土色與微微的紅色筆觸交織而成，似乎不僅代表一個身份，而是多個身份交融、碰撞、重新塑形。每一道筆觸、每一處扭曲的像素，都在召喚無聲的故事。

畫中的女子，對世人而言或許無名，但對珍來說，她是一個媒介，一個被困於兩個世界之間的存在。每當有人凝視珍的作品時，他們會感受到隱約的回聲——一陣笑聲、一股寒意，或是雨滴打在舊木頭上的氣息。對珍而言，這些感覺並非偶然，而是畫中女子過往的碎片，像漣漪般向外擴散。

珍微笑著，迎接前來觀賞的畫廊訪客。「她記得你，」珍低聲對一位駐足於肖像前的老人說。老人愣住了，表情從困惑變為恍然大悟。「是我已故的妻子，」他輕聲說。「這是她……最後的模樣。」

透過層層色彩與模糊形象，珍將破碎的生命片段重新聯繫起來，讓人們正視自己失去的同時，擁抱那些仍在身邊的存在。她的肖像不再只是影像，而是活生生的記憶。

當老人轉身離去，淚水順著臉頰滑落，珍回過身，走向下一幅畫布，耳邊已響起另一段被遺忘現實的低語。

The dim gallery hums softly with murmurs of unseen visitors, shadows flickering across fragmented portraits. In the center of the room stands Jane, a self-titled Weaver of Forgotten Realities. Her work isn't merely art; it’s a portal. Each piece she creates is a delicate layering of distorted faces, splintered memories, and ethereal hues. The face before her is blurred, the features softened as though viewed through a veil of time. Yet, Jane knows this face; it has whispered to her in her dreams.

This time, Jane has woven more than a portrait. The image, bound by pale earthy tones and faint streaks of red, suggests not just one identity but many—converging, colliding, reshaping one another. Each stroke, each pixel of distortion, pulls together untold stories.

The woman within this portrait remains nameless to the world, but Jane sees her as a conduit, a figure locked between two realms. Every time someone stares deeply into Jane's work, they experience faint echoes—a snippet of laughter, a sudden chill, or the scent of rain on old wood. To Jane, these sensations aren’t accidents. They're fragments of the woman’s past, rippling outward like waves.

Jane smiles as the gallery attendees approach her. "She remembers you," Jane murmurs cryptically to an elderly visitor who stops to admire the portrait. The old man freezes, startled. His face shifts from confusion to recognition. “My late wife,” he whispers. "This was her... in her final moments."

Through layered colors and blurred forms, Jane connects the broken pieces of lives, compelling them to confront what they've lost and embrace what lingers. Her portraits are no longer mere images—they’re living, breathing memories.

As the man steps away, a tear streaking down his face, Jane turns to her next canvas, already hearing the whispers of another forgotten reality.

My name is Jane.