Seen from behind in a cloak of mystery, Fife the Fortune Teller hovers between reveal and conceal. Her tousled scarlet hair flames against a wash of sherbet skies, soft yellows, celadon, and hints of blue that shimmer like premonitions. She wears a dotted garment, half-whimsy, half-symbol, like tea leaves waiting to be read. The pattern echoes ritual, repetition, a quiet code.
You can feel the hum of the cards in her hand, the clink of the crystal ball just out of view. The brushwork is loose but loaded, as if each stroke holds a secret. There’s an almost cinematic hush to the moment, like we’ve entered the tent seconds before the prophecy begins.
Is she revealing a future, or choosing which one to give? That ambiguity gives Fife the Fortune Teller its magic. It’s less about what’s told, and more about who does the telling.
37” x 23”, oil on canvas
Seen from behind in a cloak of mystery, Fife the Fortune Teller hovers between reveal and conceal. Her tousled scarlet hair flames against a wash of sherbet skies, soft yellows, celadon, and hints of blue that shimmer like premonitions. She wears a dotted garment, half-whimsy, half-symbol, like tea leaves waiting to be read. The pattern echoes ritual, repetition, a quiet code.
You can feel the hum of the cards in her hand, the clink of the crystal ball just out of view. The brushwork is loose but loaded, as if each stroke holds a secret. There’s an almost cinematic hush to the moment, like we’ve entered the tent seconds before the prophecy begins.
Is she revealing a future, or choosing which one to give? That ambiguity gives Fife the Fortune Teller its magic. It’s less about what’s told, and more about who does the telling.
37” x 23”, oil on canvas
