I want to weave his lush and vibrant colors into a cloak that is warm and velvety as the night, and hide under it forever.

 

I want to crawl into the dappled depths of texture that he renders onto the canvas so like a living, breathing tree.

 

Most people know Klimt for his ladies. His ladies are pretty great. They exude power and femininity and sensuality. I kinda want to be this lady, TBH.


 

But Klimt’s landscapes are out-of-this-world.

 

I want to count every blade of grass, every flower, every leaf. I want to burrow myself into the texture until every fiber of my being screams at me to come up for air.

 

I want to run into the depths of his forests and never look back. To hide myself in the shadows.

And even his gardens…

(Ah, but I want to inhale this into myself, make it part of my Being.)

…even his gardens look like his women.