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La mort de Bouddha (circa 1899)
A fading Buddha lies still, surrounded by shadowy figures. The air hums with quiet reverence, the moment suspended between life and whatever comes after. Darkness swallows the edges, but his face remains luminous—not gone, just passing through.
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Ave Maria (1815)
A woman kneels in shadowed devotion, hands clasped tight. The glow of candlelight traces her bowed head, the folds of her shawl, as whispered prayers rise like smoke. Somewhere beyond the frame, an unseen presence lingers—soft, watchful, waiting in the hush.
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The Buddha (1904)
A golden Buddha emerges from swirling darkness, his serene face half-lit. The air hums with quiet power, as if the figure might dissolve into the shadows any moment. Mysticism lingers in the brushstrokes, neither fully present nor entirely dream.
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The Agony in the Garden (ca. 1504)
Moonlight spills over the slumped figure in Gethsemane. His hands clutch the earth as shadows swallow the sleeping disciples. Above, an angel descends with a cup—its contents unclear. The night hums with silent tension between surrender and resolve.
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Femme en prière (1885)
A woman kneels in quiet devotion, her hands clasped tightly. The dim light catches the folds of her dress, shadows pooling around her. No grand cathedral—just an ordinary room, where faith feels intimate, almost fragile. Her bowed head speaks louder than any hymn.
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Ora Pro Nobis (1903)
Two angels kneel in solemn prayer, their golden halos glowing softly against the dark. White robes pool around them as they bow their heads, hands clasped in devotion. The quiet intensity of their faith radiates from the canvas, pulling the viewer into their sacred moment.
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Buddha (1906 – 1907)
A golden Buddha emerges from swirling darkness, his serene face half-lost in shadow. The glow around his head dissolves into mist, as if enlightenment itself might vanish with a breath. No lotus throne or temple—just this floating presence, both solid and ethereal, radiating quiet power through the void.
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Friede (1910-1920)
A woman’s face emerges from shadow, eyes closed in quiet surrender. Golden light traces her features, softening the sharp lines of sorrow. Not triumph, not despair—just stillness, as if she’s listening to something beyond the frame. The title whispers its promise: *Peace*. But whose? And at what cost?
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