Summary
Artist and intuitive photographer J.Genevieve explores their portfolio through a series of narratives based on color. This series features the emotion, texture and language of yellow.

Project Text

And on that note, the piece below is, by all means, quite yellow. Enjoy.

Abandoned wreckage in an erotic landscape. She locked it when she left perhaps to find help on her own or perhaps to escape the inevitable.  Regardless, the heat was nowhere to be found, even next to the mirrored lamp light swinging from one decade to the next.
Then back again.
And again.
Instead, she’s smiling at the familiar motion, glancing towards shimmers playfully dancing on the counter top and the cautionary tale of a wet floor, awakening to an assaulting red light combing the dusk drenched field for a body - anybody?

They were seen first as wishful shouldas on metal rooftops. Next time, remember to stash the cigars next to the epoch of tears and lack of spines. Up here it’s better to listen loud and long to screaming accounts of low balances and worn records glued to the windows to keep the morning light at bay - just a little longer - or at least to cast it in color, spin it ‘round to splash on the floors.  
on the walls.  
on the faces.
Should we imagine they thought “maybe in doing so, then it won’t be so bright?” since they most likely know brightness to be a burden just like too much of anything? Blue velvet flourishes next to this breakaway tune while a cap grinds between teeth, incessantly long shadowed, pesky bird wings buzzing at the amount entered which does not match detection, BUT! A quarter passed does 
and falls purposefully on shoulders.

They were almost bandits amongst the stars, except for the discovery of an unfortunate pre-starched stiffness where they had hoped for belonging and
*with a sigh*  
just find another covering and direct your gaze elsewhere already. Like to the fact that we’re hiring.
or to shop online.
or to this backflip/back flo. 
And please notify us if there aren’t sanitary or sanity wipes in the fire lane where there is no parking because
at this point presence is more infectious than the current virus and
on that note, words are penned best from the corner.
By the juice.  
And the fire extinguisher.
 
Use that so we can stay out of the tow away zone, will you?

It’s either pitted dates or chopped, meandering backwards through the aisles in search of something she could have made herself. But again, these are the options - hollow or dicey - one of which is sugar coated. An intriguing combination distracts. It all would have been her jam. It could have lit the way if it didn’t smell so goddamn fake.

A bouquet of 399 cents spelled s-e-n-s-e serves better as long as it all remains in the water with mamba tropical dreads singing and pushing Raymond cheerfully down the aisles despite the fact that insufficiency is a reoccurring problem.
One that will not remedy itself
even when the London tote held it all after all
and soon rested in the back while parking lots flew by, full of fuckin’ nuthin’
a lack which angers  
even beyond wondering - will Buddy The Fun Bus, in fact and in the future, ever ride again?

One more exit until we know, head east and round the corner.
 
Maybe to be greeted by unseen webs or three pairs of eyes peering up from below or dried roses  
or,
and yes,
tattered curtains drawn back as a reminder that when putting it all away if you accidentally nudge delicacy from within the vase, know it can always be returned without a fuss. Especially remember in those moments that the missing balm was found in the inside pocket.

Go back at it again tomorrow once it clears but first, sir, retract your claws. There will be no swiping at this altar. Even when she appears to have found
her 
and for fucks sake
LET HER

Rest.