Original & Prints Available

Original Price: $1200 (USD) | Contact: trile.shiba@gmail.com

Prints on Artwork Prints

Medium: Oil on canvas | Year: 2024 | Size: 24 x 30 (inches)

The Story

The man woke up inside his own mind, his eyes roaming around, realizing he lacked nothing. He had enough food to last two weeks, could wear any color of clothing he desired, and had access to the finest music ever created. He needed nothing more. Outside the window, leaves were changing from pale green to deep crimson, and the wind rippled gently across the feathers of pigeons. 

The streets in autumn were as lively as the summer days of August. In the heart of the city, towering skyscrapers pierced the silver clouds, their smoky breath forming a delicate veil that hung overhead. Stores along the street had already opened, some still keeping tables and chairs on their patios despite the chill tightening its grip on the earth and air. Everything continued on its cyclical course as usual, yet he saw not a single soul.

Wandering through the silent city streets, there were no voices, no songs, no footsteps. He was merely searching for something- anything - that could fill the emptiness in his soul. The autumn sun brought an indescribable sense of euphoria; he could feel its warmth trickle down from the nape of his neck to his spine. His shadow cast a deep blue tint onto the sidewalk, swaying in rhythm with his steps. Time passed, his shadow shortened, and soon it began to move independently of him. 

“You might find something interesting at the end of the street” the shadow spoke to him. 

He obeyed, quickening his pace toward the intersection. There, by the traffic light, a small, gleaming golden box floated in the air. Excited, he grabbed it and tucked it into his pocket, returning to his mind with a newfound joy. He rubbed his hands together, pressed them to his face, feeling the heat rise. Slowly, he opened the box. A wave of warmth spread through the room, illuminating everything. Out stepped a tiny dog, its fur a soft orange, its tail curled, its form small and delicate. The dog leapt into his arms, letting out sounds of happiness. He hugged the dog tightly, tears stinging his eyes, and sobbed openly. The room inside his mind began to grow warm. 

The next day, he returned to the corner of the street, where a new box awaited him. He brought it home. This time, it contained a small black pouch filled with guitar picks. A voice emanated from the depths of the pouch. 

“How are things?” 

“I wish I could share everything I’ve been through.” 

“You can talk. I’m here.” 

He recounted all the seasons he’d lived through, the beautiful songs, the carefree days of wandering. He poured everything into the pouch, and an unbelievable lightness filled him.

On the third day, he went to the corner as usual and brought back another golden box. Inside was a tiny bed, an old song playing softly, and a cassette player placed near the bed’s headboard. He saw himself lying in the center, as a child, arms and legs spread wide, overwhelmed by an immense, inexplicable happiness. 

On the fourth day, he opened the box to find shimmering, crystal-clear water. Peering into it, he saw his own reflection staring back, naked, with widely spread pupils. An ant crawled out of his mouth, making its way down to bite his abdomen. The bite didn’t hurt him; instead, it satisfied him.

Each day, he brought home a box, and the room in his mind gradually filled with the most beautiful, joyous things imaginable. 

Winter arrived, the winds grew stronger, and crimson leaves fell from the branches onto the streets. He awoke, but not inside his mind this time. His eyes scanned his surroundings, and he realized he lacked nothing. He had enough food to last two weeks, could wear any color of clothing he desired, and had access to the finest music ever created. But the golden boxes were gone. The orange dog was nowhere to be found, the pouch was missing, the bed and cassette player had vanished, and there was no glistening, crystalline water.

Artist Statement

This painting reflects the quiet tension between what we lose and how we try to replace it. It’s about the things we reach for - possessions, hobbies, and distractions - to fill the emptiness left by what we once had. These substitutes bring brief comfort, but like fading memories, they slip away, leaving us searching once again.

The cross-contour brush strokes mimic the movement of memory - blurred and fading, never fully clear. The strokes flow across the canvas like fragments of the past, caught between holding on and letting go.

This work isn’t about finding answers but exploring the feeling of longing. It’s a pause to reflect on the things we try to hold onto, the beauty of what remains, and the quiet realization that some things can never truly be replaced.

Tri Le