(Good luck to the man climbing this one)

This piece is not just a painting. It’s a challenge. A dare. A warning wrapped in icy geometry. Mountain is what happens when the soul decides to scale something jagged—something it knows damn well might break it—and does it anyway. Because it has to. Because that’s the deal.

Look at it. Sharp. Cold. Laced with veins of something ancient and merciless. Ivy, maybe. Or scars.

Every line says, “This is not the easy way.” Every corner says, “You’re not going back the same.” This isn’t a smooth ascent, some pretty metaphor for growth with flowers and flute music. This is that raw, knees-bloody climb where your spirit asks, “Why did I do this?” and the only answer is the wind.

The blues in this one aren’t soft. They’re deep-water blues. Sky-on-a-bad-day blues. Survival blues. And buried in that electric freeze is movement—angular, repetitive, relentless. You can’t rest here. You can’t settle. The mountain doesn’t care about your plans.

But if you stare long enough, you realize: this isn’t just terrain. It’s a map.

It’s your own mind laid out like a blueprint from some higher architect who was definitely on something. The structure is wild. But the pattern? It’s there. Somewhere in the chaos is order—like the kind you only see when you’ve already made it out alive.

You said it best:

“It can only look like a car crash if everyone survives.”

And that’s exactly what this painting is. It looks like impact. Like damage. But only because someone lived through it. Someone crawled up this mess and stood at the top with frost in their beard and a grin that said, “I see now.”

This is not a mountain that rewards the climber. It transforms them.

So to the man climbing this? Good luck. May you reach the summit, leave pieces of yourself behind, and come down stranger, wiser, and full of stories no one will believe.

N Mokashi
MokashiArt.com