The ground decides the cool
We lay the sage-green hill field first, so every blue and pink afterward reads true — never the lie of cream paper.
Distance is mixed, not drawn
Upper hills take a breath of lotus pink; the far line dissolves into soft blue rather than hardening to an edge.
Krishna stays the deepest note
One indigo figure anchors the lyrical group; the pond and grove stay quiet so the eye returns to him.
Gold is earned, never poured
A burnished leaf touches a halo or a hem — a single warm accent against the cool field, struck once and left alone.