Resembling bent fingers of a hand writhing in pain, two crippled trees tower up out of the snow. Placed in the middle of the painting, they appear to be a distorted reflection of the artist’s monogram in the right lower corner of the pictures. Surfacing out of the depth, a magical dim-red light illuminates the gloomy sky.
Here too, the real spur for making the picture – the sight of the floodlight from a power station in the valley penetrating the thick winter fog, with the two trees in irreversable ruin – is translated into the confession about the artist’s existence. The image of the landscape becomes a metaphor for lonliness, disease amd transience.