September 11, 2001: Charred walls — black and sooty with shadows of gray — stood partially crumbled, while a thick layer of ash blanketed the streets. In places, fiery embers glinted beneath the ashen pall, stubborn remnants of an unquenched blaze. Abruptly, a voluminous abbey bell swung perilously close, driven by a gale that arrived unannounced. Its clapper was tethered to the heavens by a robust rope, and as it oscillated like a vast pendulum, a ferocious wind rose again. The throngs of people scattered in frenetic disarray, without purpose or destination. Each swing of the bell seemed to weave a spell of restoration, miraculously mending the devastation in its arc. Compelled by an unseen force, I stumbled upon a partially intact subway entrance amidst the ruins and approached it. There, three enigmatic figures huddled together before pivoting in unison to lock gazes with me. They seemed eager to disclose some message, but before a word was uttered, I retreated. Moments later, a golden cross materialized in my grasp, over half a meter in length. Gripping it with resolve and holding it aloft like a beacon or a shield, I discovered it possessed the power to reverse the destruction before my eyes. Engulfed in a feverish sweat, I found myself seated on the floor beside my bed, trembling uncontrollably for a duration that felt both interminable and fleeting. My wife, concerned, inquired after my wellbeing, but words failed me; I could only sit in silence. Approximately a week following this surreal experience, the tragic event that would come to be known as the 9/11 attacks unfolded in New York. This canvas I painted in the aftermath, serving as a vessel for the visions that had so profoundly shaken me.
September 11, 2001: Charred walls — black and sooty with shadows of gray — stood partially crumbled, while a thick layer of ash blanketed the streets. In places, fiery embers glinted beneath the ashen pall, stubborn remnants of an unquenched blaze. Abruptly, a voluminous abbey bell swung perilously close, driven by a gale that arrived unannounced. Its clapper was tethered to the heavens by a robust rope, and as it oscillated like a vast pendulum, a ferocious wind rose again. The throngs of people scattered in frenetic disarray, without purpose or destination. Each swing of the bell seemed to weave a spell of restoration, miraculously mending the devastation in its arc. Compelled by an unseen force, I stumbled upon a partially intact subway entrance amidst the ruins and approached it. There, three enigmatic figures huddled together before pivoting in unison to lock gazes with me. They seemed eager to disclose some message, but before a word was uttered, I retreated. Moments later, a golden cross materialized in my grasp, over half a meter in length. Gripping it with resolve and holding it aloft like a beacon or a shield, I discovered it possessed the power to reverse the destruction before my eyes. Engulfed in a feverish sweat, I found myself seated on the floor beside my bed, trembling uncontrollably for a duration that felt both interminable and fleeting. My wife, concerned, inquired after my wellbeing, but words failed me; I could only sit in silence. Approximately a week following this surreal experience, the tragic event that would come to be known as the 9/11 attacks unfolded in New York. This canvas I painted in the aftermath, serving as a vessel for the visions that had so profoundly shaken me.