溶けた蝋のような夕焼け空に輝くヴェネツィアの港の船

a Venetian harbor aflame with sunset, where thick encaustic wax swirls in molten layers to sculpt a scene that feels half-painting, half-relief. The sky is a volcanic eruption of impasto orange and crimson, the clouds chiseled into peaks and troughs that cast real shadows across the harbor. Below, the water is a restless cobalt, slashed with molten gold reflections that ripple like actual liquid metal, each wave crest rendered in raised wax so tactile you could drag your fingers through it. The ships—weather-beaten Venetian trabaccoli with sails like aged parchment—are carved into the surface, their hulls textured with wood grain so deep it resembles driftwood fossilized in wax. Rigging threads, actual strands of wax pulled taut, crisscross the scene, while the distant city melts into the horizon, its bell towers and domes mere suggestions under a sun that’s not painted but *embedded*, a convex disc of translucent amber wax glowing like embers. Every brushstroke is a landslide, every color a sediment layer—this isn’t a sunset observed but one *excavated*.