An artist lives quietly by the Bastille Square, clothed in black, the brush between shadow and sky.  Patricia Erbelding do not chose the color, that who invade the walls here, frenetic, that who hurts the eyes. In a space ordered to a square, I recently visited her. Refusing all excesses, she counts her gestures as the warper the threads.  The artist pauses in front of
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An artist lives quietly by the Bastille Square, clothed in black, the brush between shadow and sky. Patricia Erbelding do not chose the color, that who invade the walls here, frenetic, that who hurts the eyes. In a space ordered to a square, I recently visited her. Refusing all excesses, she counts her gestures as the warper the threads. The artist pauses in front of

An artist lives quietly by the Bastille Square, clothed in black, the brush between shadow and sky.  Patricia Erbelding do not chose the color, that who invade the walls here, frenetic, that who hurts the eyes. In a space ordered to a square, I recently visited her. Refusing all excesses, she counts her gestures as the warper the threads.  The artist pauses in front of


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Clouds and Days

Clouds and Days