Love in a Fallen City started where most of mine do — in the hour just before dark, when the light goes low and warm and impatient, and the whole skyline softens at the edges.
I wanted a city that had come undone a little. Not ruined — just tired. Dusk-blue, holding its breath. And into all that fading I set two hummingbirds, because that’s where love actually lives: not in the perfect places, but in the fallen ones — hovering, present, refusing to leave.
People see the melancholy first. Look a little longer and the warm light is still climbing up under the blue, pink and gold pushing through where you’d swear there was no room for them. That’s the part I mean. Even a fallen city gets the last ten minutes of light. Especially a fallen city.
That’s the whole painting, really. Love that stays after the light doesn’t.
