Nine Hats with Stories to Tell I, is an original painting, created with acrylic paint and pencil, onto a plywood canvas
Measuring 23cm x 24cm and 1.8cm thick, this piece comes as it is, ready for you to attach a 3M strip or two, to hang on the wall.
They hang in a row, nine crowns of ordinary courage. Each one had its own shape - some sun-bleached, some still proud with colour, all softened by weather and time.
The first belonged to a wanderer who followed rivers, his brim stained by rain and laughter. He left a feather from a heron he startled one morning, the bird taking flight just as he decided to keep going.
The second was a farmer’s, worn smooth where fingers used to adjust it before a day’s work. A kahu’s feather nestled in the band, a reminder of her grandfather who taught her to ride and never look down.
The third hat had danced. You could tell by the curve of its brim, the way it still seemed to tilt towards music. Its feather was bring blue from a festival long gone, when the air was full of dust and joy.
The fourth had been through storms. Its crown was dented, its band frayed, but it carried a small feather of a goldfinch - proof that even in hard seasons, something tender had stayed.
The fifth was a soldier’s, or maybe a dreamer’s - no one could say. The feather there was white, simple and soft, found the day peace returned.
The sixth had ridden trains and horses and maybe even hope itself. It carried a fantail’s feather, brown and shining, a reminder that some journeys never truly end.
The seventh belonged to a storyteller. You could see smudges of paint on the band, dust from roads never meant to travel, and a quill shaped feather - as if words themselves had taken wing.
The eighth was a mother’s hat, left hanging on a nail by the back door. Its feather was small, blue and delicate - a gift from the child who proudly found it in the grass.
And the ninth, the ninth is yours. It waits quietly, brim open to the wind, band empty still - not because it lacks a story, but because it’s still being written.
Nine hats, nine lives, nine acts of quiet bravery. Each time a hand reaches up and sets one on a head, the world remembers: courage isn’t loud. It just looks good in the light.
Nine Hats with Stories to Tell I, is an original painting, created with acrylic paint and pencil, onto a plywood canvas
Measuring 23cm x 24cm and 1.8cm thick, this piece comes as it is, ready for you to attach a 3M strip or two, to hang on the wall.
They hang in a row, nine crowns of ordinary courage. Each one had its own shape - some sun-bleached, some still proud with colour, all softened by weather and time.
The first belonged to a wanderer who followed rivers, his brim stained by rain and laughter. He left a feather from a heron he startled one morning, the bird taking flight just as he decided to keep going.
The second was a farmer’s, worn smooth where fingers used to adjust it before a day’s work. A kahu’s feather nestled in the band, a reminder of her grandfather who taught her to ride and never look down.
The third hat had danced. You could tell by the curve of its brim, the way it still seemed to tilt towards music. Its feather was bring blue from a festival long gone, when the air was full of dust and joy.
The fourth had been through storms. Its crown was dented, its band frayed, but it carried a small feather of a goldfinch - proof that even in hard seasons, something tender had stayed.
The fifth was a soldier’s, or maybe a dreamer’s - no one could say. The feather there was white, simple and soft, found the day peace returned.
The sixth had ridden trains and horses and maybe even hope itself. It carried a fantail’s feather, brown and shining, a reminder that some journeys never truly end.
The seventh belonged to a storyteller. You could see smudges of paint on the band, dust from roads never meant to travel, and a quill shaped feather - as if words themselves had taken wing.
The eighth was a mother’s hat, left hanging on a nail by the back door. Its feather was small, blue and delicate - a gift from the child who proudly found it in the grass.
And the ninth, the ninth is yours. It waits quietly, brim open to the wind, band empty still - not because it lacks a story, but because it’s still being written.
Nine hats, nine lives, nine acts of quiet bravery. Each time a hand reaches up and sets one on a head, the world remembers: courage isn’t loud. It just looks good in the light.
