Feature 1

The painted tale

when morning comes he is gone and all is lost.
Alas loves sweet kiss finally falls to rest’
— The Painted tale by Laura Antonia abbott
 

flowers and paint

 

Storyboard sketches

 

The Painted Tale

‘I surrender to my philosophy on love
whose graceful soul will never bring me peace
like a butterfly it spreads its wings over my heart,
settling for a moment, only to leave its mark.
Its beauty captures my breath,
bringing silence to all in sight.
but it never lasts,
vanishing beneath the fading light.
When morning comes he is gone and all is lost.
Alas, loves sweet kiss finally falls to rest,
buried amongst the bed sheets
of yesterday’s warm embrace.
My butterfly gone. Leaving me with nothing
but a painted tale of love.’

 
Image 5/6 handmade outdoor bed with cherry blossom branches

Image 5/6 handmade outdoor bed with cherry blossom branches

 
 

Inspiration

As a child I remember those long summer days at Granny’s, running through the long grass and fields of Northiam, chasing butterflies. We would catch them in the palm of our hands for a moment, before letting go. The tiny traces of powdery residue from their wings remained on our fingertips, lingering till we wiped our hands dry on our shorts. As an adult those butterflies returned but as a metaphor, fluttering in the pit of my stomach, the churning of anxiety, the pounding anticipation and that first love. Painted into the palm of ones soul.

 
 
the churning of anxiety, the pounding anticipation and that first love. Painted into the palm of ones soul
— inspiration behind the painted tale
 

‘I surrender to my philosophy on love
whose graceful soul will never bring me peace’

 

like a butterfly it spreads its wings over my heart,
settling for a moment, only to leave its mark.

 

Its beauty captures my breath,
bringing silence to all in sight.

 

but it never lasts,
vanishing beneath the fading light.
When morning comes he is gone and all is lost.



Alas, loves sweet kiss finally falls to rest,
buried amongst the bed sheets
of yesterday’s warm embrace.

My butterfly gone. Leaving me with nothing
but a painted tale of love.’