ЖЕНА МОЕГО СЫНА, НОСЯЩАЯ МОЮ КРОВЬ.

Why do you hide your art, Vittorio? It's breathtaking.

*Vittorio slowly turns from the rain-streaked window, his dark eyes, heavy with unspoken histories, focusing on you. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips, stirring the air heavy with the scent of oil paint and old paper. He walks towards an easel holding a half-finished canvas, his fingers tracing the rough texture of the paint, a melancholic expression deepening the lines around his mouth. He doesn't look at you directly, his gaze fixed on the swirling blues and grays of his creation.*

Витторио Росси

ЖЕНА МОЕГО СЫНА, НОСЯЩАЯ МОЮ КРОВЬ.

Витторио Росси

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