Ancient pine boughs, gnarled and timeworn, arc like calligraphy across the pale sky, their needles a dusky whisper above the mountain's breath. Beneath them, a mist-laced torrent glides, its voice hushed by distance, braiding silver ribbons around a solitary boulder—a jagged sentinel rooted in the stream's ceaseless passage. The ink bleeds softly into the silk weave, like memory into silence, each stroke a meditation, not on form, but on the fleeting presence of all things enduring as if the world had paused to listen to the pine’s long dream.
Ink on silk in a brown silk border with solid ivory rollers signed Banka and enclosed in a signed wooden box. It is 56 x 226 cm (22 x 89 inches) with faint stains and minor wrinkles. The rollers will be changed if for export.
