In Drawn to the Ocean, the boundary between the human soul and the sea blurs into a swirl of color and feeling. The subject’s face, serene yet searching, emerges from an eddy of aquamarine and ivory brushstrokes, her hair fusing seamlessly with ocean waves as if the tides themselves shaped her. Hints of amber and dusk-gold flicker through the flowing strands, echoing sunlight filtering through water’s surface. Her gaze—both knowing and distant—anchors the composition like a lighthouse in a dream. I wanted this portrait to be a reverie made visible, capturing the magnetic pull of water on the spirit, as if the sea had sculpted her from memory.
Drawn to the Ocean
There are forces in this world older than names, deeper than language, and the ocean is one of them. It does not beckon with beauty—it claims you with truth. We return to it not only for comfort, but for remembering. Beneath the surface of one'slife—beneath calendars, clocks, and the sharp angles of modernity—there is something soft, tidal, and wild that only the ocean knows how to touch. When we stand before it, we feel a kind of unraveling, as if the salt in the wind is whispering to the salt in our blood: Come back. You were never meant to stay away this long.
To be drawn to the ocean is to ache for origin. It is to long for the unnamed place from which we all rose, before the spine straightened, before breath was borrowed from the sky. We are not merely gazing at waves—we are standing before a mirror that reflects what we cannot see in ourself: fluidity, surrender, timelessness. The sea does not ask us to swim—it asks us to dissolve. To forget the weight of expectation and remember the rhythm of being. In its presence, we are not woman, man, name, past or plan. We are tide. We are drift. We are home without coordinates.
Drawn to the Ocean
Her face drifts from the canvas of waves,
blue eyes lit like horizons not yet named,
hair dissolving into tides of ivory and flame,
each strand a current,
each curl a whisper of surf.
Amber flickers through the water’s breath,
a dusk-gold glimmer threading the foam,
as though sunlight itself surrendered here,
caught in the eddy
between body and sea.
She gazes outward, inward, beyond—
a lighthouse in a dream of water,
both anchor and drift,
her silence carrying
the weight of salt and origin.
No boundary holds her—
skin becomes tide, tide becomes skin,
where memory and ocean merge,
a reverie of motion,
a hymn without shore.
We return to her as we return to the sea—
not seeking beauty, but truth.
In her stillness we unravel,
remembering that we too
were born of water’s breath.
Drawn to the Ocean is available for purchase. Collect it today!