Mythic Stewards of Al-Andalus
Mythic Al-Andalus is a visual memory map — drawn from the land, filtered through grief, and rendered as myth.
Each piece begins as a field sketch or emotional threshold — a fragment of the terrain remembered in silence. These forms are then painted using earth-infused pigments, regional mineral tones, and sacred materials gathered from the land and sea.
Actual dirt, ash, olive leaf, and coastal trace are infused into the pigment.
The frames are hand-built from olive branch trimmings harvested in Andalucía.
Printed on museum-grade cotton rag using archival inks, each piece is signed, sealed, and offered in limited edition.
These are not decorations. They are relics. They remember for you.
THE WATER SPINNER
She moves where the wall breaks.
Her hands are wet with snow.
No face -- just a bend in the channel.
She stitched the mountain to the orchard.
Threaded thirst into the almond root.
Her thread is silence.
Once, a boy followed her shadow.
He found mint, cold, and a thorn.
Bless the cut that lets the mountain bleed.
Bless the thread.
Bless the one who never drinks, but feeds.
THE WEST WIND
He comes with a mouth full of dust.
He laughs under the skin of the wheat.
The dogs bark at nothing when he passes.
He is the cracked fig.
The window that swings all night.
The match before the blaze.
No one calls him.
Still he enters.
He lifts the skirts of the olive trees and forgets to leave.
Bless the fire that does not ask.
Bless the thorn in the harvest.
Bless the wind that ruins because it remembers.
She was born where the sea forgets.
Her cradle: a net of glass.
Her eyes: two wounds of light.
She walks with the tide but leaves no footprints.
Only crust. Only silence.
She remembers the names of the drowned.
She speaks them to the stones.
Bless the fruit that withers sweet.
Bless the skin that burns and shines.
Bless the salt that keeps what the sea has taken.
SHEPHERD OF THE MIST
He walks where the roots forget the sky.
His staff is a branch of rot.
Mushrooms bloom behind his heel
like secrets told in sleep.
His flock is silence.
Spore.
Moss.
Ash.He sings to the things that die but do not leave.
He names them and they return as breath.
Bless the damp that listens.
Bless the dark that feeds.
Bless the shepherd who guides what no one sees.
THE SHADOW OF THE CORK OAK
She stands where the axe does not sing.
Her bark is stripped, but her heart is whole.
She remembers the hoof,
the bell,
the hand that cuts with care.
She is not shade --she is shelter.
Stillness braided with age.
She does not speak.
But the raven waits
where her shadow falls.
Bless the bark that heals.
Bless the silence that holds.
Bless the tree that gives and stays.
THE THREE SISTERS OF THE SUN
They walk the furrows with bare feet.
Their hair is flame.
Their breath, cicada.
They do not speak --
they crack.
They peel the skin from time.
One carries the seed.
One carries the blade.
One carries the ash.
They vanish with the first cloud,
but the wheat remembers
where they danced.
Bless the sweat that feeds.
Bless the fire that ripens.
Bless the sisters who burn for the harvest.
THE FERRYMAN OF THE SILENT RIVER
He rows without sound.
His boat carries no shadow.
Only weight.
He does not ask where you are going.
He knows.
The river knows.
The willows lean to listen.
The reeds hold their breath.No bird sings after he passes.
He wears a cloak of names
and oars carved from sleep.
Bless the water that forgets.
Bless the coin that is not paid.
Bless the ferryman who remembers for us all.