September 22, 2016. Oil on canvas. 15 x 20cm. Russia

Sky had different colour and shape. 

The place we lived had a gray sky. When I went to Nepal or Tibet, the sky was a dark blue violet. In New Zealand the sky is a dark blue.

I used to think the sky was a great story teller. He stood above all of us, noticed all the people and their incidents. And when he thought, or he smiled, or he frowned, the sky would have changed. In form of thin and thick cloud, in form of shapes and colours.

The sky in Russia had deeply attracted me. 

It was always very complex. The colour was very diversified. Different degree of blue, different degree of white. And gray. Sometimes incorporated a sheer layer of yellow ochre or reddish gray.

The cloud was always always heavy. The shape was always very bold. In this endless piece of plain grass land we could always see a huge curtain of cloud hanging from the top to the horizon line. 

In the whole trip I always looked up and spared at the sky and admired the running clouds and its beauty. I was thinking all the ancient Russian stories and hoped to get a clue from this mighty story teller. 

This little painting had recorded the fascination which touched my heart. And I hoped my later audiences could tell the story behind.