By Phoebe Stone - ‘We tried to reach the Villa’ 🟡 (ON HOLD)
93 × 63cm
Oil Pastel on Plywood. Framed in Tasmanian Oak.
This piece is an original by Phoebe Stone created in 2026 for her solo exhibition ‘Poet Poet White Daffodil’. Please find shipping informationfor this piece, or enquire here.
‘Poet Poet White Daffodil’ -
I've been thinking of this body of work as a curation of antipodean daydreams, drifting in and out of focus, meandering quietly, and rhythmically exploring a palpable sense of longing. Each artwork is a narrative, glimpsed through marks - both slow and hurried, that speak to the soft slow burn of an urge to lose ones self to memories and moments, both real and desired. Each work carries a sound, a scent, a knowing of the exact way a terracotta tile felt underfoot, the grain of the linen tablecloth as our fingers reached for a wine glass, the sensation of foilage brushing against our bodies and soft scented flowers guiding our meandering through villa gardens, the sound of the wind cracking through a sail on waters of Aegean blue...
By Phoebe Stone - ‘We tried to reach the Villa’ 🟡 (ON HOLD)
93 × 63cm
Oil Pastel on Plywood. Framed in Tasmanian Oak.
This piece is an original by Phoebe Stone created in 2026 for her solo exhibition ‘Poet Poet White Daffodil’. Please find shipping informationfor this piece, or enquire here.
‘Poet Poet White Daffodil’ -
I've been thinking of this body of work as a curation of antipodean daydreams, drifting in and out of focus, meandering quietly, and rhythmically exploring a palpable sense of longing. Each artwork is a narrative, glimpsed through marks - both slow and hurried, that speak to the soft slow burn of an urge to lose ones self to memories and moments, both real and desired. Each work carries a sound, a scent, a knowing of the exact way a terracotta tile felt underfoot, the grain of the linen tablecloth as our fingers reached for a wine glass, the sensation of foilage brushing against our bodies and soft scented flowers guiding our meandering through villa gardens, the sound of the wind cracking through a sail on waters of Aegean blue...
