2020. Graphite and gouache on paper. 22”x30”
On the hillside there is a house on fire. Flames card through the air as pennants would in rough wind, the smoke climbs deep into the grey arch of the sky. It is a lonely scene over the treeless bluff, soulless and still save for the writhing grasp of hungry fire.
Piroska saw the smoke tucked between a few hills a while back-smelled it-and thought perhaps it was evidence of another person, of camp and company. But as that grey cloud grows more in her vision and the tableau lays itself before her, it becomes clear. Piroska faces another leg of her journey alone, faring the barren hills that skirt the great green dip of the forest.
Solitude is accepted as easily as sun in morning or moon at night. Acceptance it may be, but a joyless thing it is, quiet save for the draw and release of one’s breath and the percussive slide of footsteps over highland roughage and through leafy gullies. Gathering herself, Piroska idles before the wreckage.
There’s something else, aside from the churning fire, that catches softly and slowly in the breeze. Hanging aloft on a headstone, untouched by flame, is the heavy wool and flourishing embroidery and appliqué of a shepherd’s szűr. The coat consumes Piroska’s vision, hypnotic in its wavering. Roses born of red thread and felt hold her transfixed.