Daughter of Fate_Tempest_The Labyrinth of Whispers_The Final Supper
Catalog Guide:
Daughter of Fate
Yards of silk slip effortlessly through Moira’s fingers. She draws a length of cream, draping it here, pinning it there. A silhouette comes to life, the echo of a dress. The bride and her mother exchange glances. A thrill of destiny, a sense of serendipity. Bolts of ivory and champagne and dusty rose clutter the worktable behind them. Rolls of velvet, satin and chiffon create a landscape of textiles, rivers and clouds. The studio clock ticks on as an afternoon shadow passes over its face. “This one was meant for you,” Moira says, removing the leftover pins from between her teeth and sticking t...
Tempest
Waves break against the bow of Tempest, as the water riders control the ebb and flow of the sea, propelling the ship forward. Breaking through the last of the waves, the riders dismount from their pedestals. Before they can get below deck they can hear Captain Galan at the helm congratulating them, “Another well ridden storm!”. Each rider can’t help but smile at their Captain’s overwhelming positivity.“Aye Captain! Call us back if you need us!” one of the riders exclaims. “Please don’t need us though!” the group chuckles to themselves.“You know we can’t control the sea Zilmas. I can just offe...
The Labyrinth of Whispers
It was said she was made of words, created from stanzas and lyrical sentences that came to life to form her being. She had always been there, silently tucking books into their proper places, her ocean-blue hair like a bird fluttering between the shelves. She looked young but her eyes were old. Her skin was covered in stories, black and grey and purple ink bleeding into clocks and hearts and names that children would often whisper among themselves to guess their origin. Some speculated she bore the names of those she had lost, others that the names referred to places that were important to her....
The Final Supper
It was just a few hours ago at one of those faux cafes on the corner of Atlantic and Fifth that I began to have a premonition which had such weight that its conception sent my head deep into the dark recesses of the earth. George Berkeley tells us that perception is nothing but essence; it is in this sense that I knew the world must have ceased in its existence of ‘being’ sometime between then and when I must have fallen away. Premonitions like these are too powerful to tell us anything other than that which already happened. With all this in mind – and with the knowledge that God’s inscrutabi...