“Two Tahitian women seated on a woven mat among mangoes and taro, their…”

“The seated women are solid as apples, yet their forms dissolve into planes of chrome and cobalt. Too much Gauguin’s dream, not enough structure. The mat anchors them well, but the jungle’s facets lack the weight of my Mont Sainte-Victoire. Balance holds, yet feeling fragments.”

“The women are too stiff, their pareos flat—I see no soul. The mangoes and taro become mere colored blocks, not offerings. You mimic my forms but lack the mystery: that savage grace where earth breathes through flesh. Simplify further, seek the child’s vision.”