Whitman’s beard spills like wild grass over his collar, his gaze steady but distant. The light catches the folds of his coat, rough and lived-in. There’s weight in his stillness—not just a man, but a presence. You can almost hear the low rumble of his voice.
A woman bathed in golden light turns slightly, her face half-hidden. The sun catches the folds of her dress, casting soft shadows that seem to breathe. There’s a quiet intensity in her averted gaze—something unspoken, lingering just beyond the frame.
A dreamlike composition where flowing figures and soft colors evoke the quiet magic of music.