2025.05.20
Jane was known as the “Curtain Reader” in the city’s forgotten corner, a woman who could see the facts with a sparkle. It is said that his face is always a little away from the attention of others, it was said that the many spheres that touch his vision is reflected. People were not for clarification, but wrapped in metaphor for reality, spoken in the whispers and colors.
His studio stood with the old velvet curtains, with thick inception of the air and with an endless music. The client sitting near him, fading its properties, hypnotized with green cycles and roses across his eyelids – memory and hiding symbols. He never felt. His eyes were wells that rejected the timelines.
“You don’t have to find the answers here,” she says, both near and far. “You’re here to remember what you already know.”
Its readings were not given with cards or stars, but through portraits – those whom they painted in trans, smoke and lay up until the subject emerged like a ghost in smoke. When people looked at themselves on his canvas, people shouted: as they appeared, but as they were, or feared to be, or once thought they would be.
Each portrait was a doorstep. And once a person saw his own, something changed. A decision was delayed. A holiday eventually happened. There was a love, long buried, properly mourning.
Jane never kept a portrait. He said he was unstable, past and full of possibility. She would burn them after each session, let them smoke to the sky.
No one knew where Jane came from. She just appeared in the morning with a fog, as if it was coming out of a dream. And when she came quietly, she was erased again – only her legendary shaking, soft like a whisper.