Painting

The Art Professor's Tale
The Art Professors Tale Part 1 Strands of long black hair fell from his lowered head hovering above the teak wood adorning the top of the desk. Worn hands failed to conceal the unsteadiness he felt inside as they shuffled through papers. Fingers filled with tremors of his emotions lingered on individual pages before moving on to the next. Eyes unable to focus through the blur of his thoughts stared blankly at words written in meter and verse.
By The Invisible Writer3 years ago in Art
Of Sea & Sky
“Come, come, Elispa, my darling, don’t fret. Everything will be quite all right, I promise you this.” Elispa embraced the arms of her sister, Asura, which were wrapped around her thin shoulders for comfort, and gazed into her beloved sea. Elipsa sighed, seeing that the starfish and sea anemones were already beginning their transformation into those lovely, fluttering things of the sky. What were they called? Oh, yes - butterflies - of course, she remembered now. Oh dear, she thought. With the hand that wasn’t desperately grasping her sister’s, Elipsa wiped a translucent, aquamarine-colored tear from her eye. Was this really goodbye?
By Gina C.3 years ago in Art
Harmony
I moved quietly in the background, a challenge in a crowd of whites my black skin stood out. The painter called for me again, young woman he addressed. He was the first to ever do so, most call out "girl". My name was of no significance to them. I am a servant. He asked me to arrange flowers as he set up his paints. The first time he asked me to model and touch such elegance and beauty I was afraid. Blacks were shadows of their masters not people to be painted and admired like all of his art. He was educated and from an outstanding family background. A medical man. People flock to his art studio. Everyone was a plant and needed the love of his sun rays. I couldn't believe such a wondrous human being would be taken with little old me. "You fit with these peonies so lovely. Might you grant me permission to paint you again?" He asked as if I could deny him, it was nice nevertheless. I discovered he had titled the first painting 'young woman.' It made me giddy as a child to be treated with such warmth and respect. I took my time with the flowers not wanting to part from them or him. White, pink, deep pink and red peonies laid on the wooden table. Several times now I have changed my mind. There was too much pink in my first arrangement. It reminded me of parties where I served in all white spaces. No matter how invisible I tried to be, men would gather toward me. Ladies would taunt and belittle in fits of jealousy over being discarded for another woman, a black servant. I snatched all the pink flowers from their vase and placed them on the table and started anew. Nothing that invoked those horrid memories. Here, I was asked to be a part of something eternal. A painting that would last and be seen by all. I was someone who was more than just a black servant on his canvas. I concentrated so hard on my peonies I forgot the artist was working until he coughed. He chuckled when I jumped. "This is great. Most people are awkward around me. They focus so much on my painting it's hard for them to be natural." I wanted to smile, but I didn't. There were too many ways it could go wrong. He offered me one and there was an understanding behind it that I appreciated. The vase was empty for the fourth time today. My third attempt had shaken me. All the colourful flowers were on the table and the vase was filled with white peonies. The deep red peonies with hints of pink were my favourite. How did I manage not to include them in my arrangement? The white peonies were gorgeous, they weren't the only ones anyone could see their beauty. Why had the others been left out? How could I? Shame washed over me. My subconscious treated these peonies how others have treated me. I took another look. The deep red and pink peony is me. It is the only one of its kind. The others are all pale and deep pink, no dark red with hints of pink. I took all the white peonies out and made an effort to include all of the different types of flowers and colours of peonies. I make sure to place a blue flower in the vase to get it right this time. I've done it, created the perfect arrangement. "The pale pink peonies should be in the front. They'll make the arrangement feel more airy and bright. Should I be your model?" A striking blonde entered the art studio. The painter didn't look up from his work. I took the deep red peony out of the vase and put it on the table. I'm not one to rebel against whites. Maybe it was the artist ignoring her that made me bold. I took a deeper pink peony and placed it right next to the pale one. Adding another light flower I placed a darker one. The painter snickered. I felt her eyes on me. I did not bait her. "Those are too rich a colour, remove them." "I've asked her to arrange these flowers. Don't distract her with your mindless banter. You'll ruin my work." I grabbed a yellow flower and kept my eyes trained on my new arrangement. It was too bad whites felt superior to us. These flowers looked even better together.
By Jordan Sky Daniels3 years ago in Art
Calliope & the Gargoyles. Top Story - July 2023.
Papá always promised me that one day, when I was old enough, I would come to understand my role in the heavens. Until then, he curbed my curiosity wisely - distracting me with fairytales of the worlds that existed far below our celestial kingdom.
By Gina C.3 years ago in Art
Loose Bearings
*DING* *DING* *Ding* *di-ding* *ing-ing-ing* A bell whimpered on its string as a young woman burst inside a liquor store. She shoplifted a pair of red sunglasses then found the second cabinet along the near wall. She plucked an armful of glass 40s and dumped it on the counter.
By david love3 years ago in Art
The Art of Love. Top Story - July 2023.
“The world is but a canvas to our imagination.” Henry David Thoreau I love art. In all forms. It has been a constant through painting, music, writing, and woodworking. Art, in all its forms, is how I express myself and process my own emotions. My house is full of paintings, wooden art, furniture, and tapestries. Some I have painted. I even have one my husband painted, probably the only painting he has ever done. In his words, he is not artistic.
By J. Delaney-Howe3 years ago in Art
From Below the Cloud
Here, on this cloud. No better place to be, than here, on this cloud. To look down below and see my love, who once loved me, walking along the green hills with another man’s hand in hers. But saying another man would be incorrect. For here, laying on this cloud and speaking, is a being of half-man half-animal. My legs replaced with a beast’s hind legs of burnt umber colored fur and hooves clicking instead of calm flat feet. And when my hands brush the delicate waves of the hair on my head, the curled horns bar my fingers. I am strong, that is true, but inside I am as soft as the faint song heard from a Blue Bird singing far within the spring-morning mountains. And the only way the people hear this song, is not when they look at me or hear me speak like an ordinary man speaks, it is when I play. When I press my lips gently against the wooden flute and pour all that is within me out through the wooden holes, then, out comes my song. A sad song. A song of loneliness and of love never felt and given, and acceptance never received. And when the people are in town and can hear this song playing in the distance, they follow it. Follow it through the village, across the bridge and up towards the green hills. And then they see me. Me, playing this song. And no matter how sweet the song is and how far they have traveled to be close to it, when they see me all the curiosity and delight on their faces disappear and they hurriedly walk away, leaving me alone to play my sad song.
By Katheleen3 years ago in Art
The Artistry of Painted Prose: Engaging the Senses through Vivid Descriptions
Section 1: The Essence of Painted Prose Painted prose, often referred to as descriptive prose, is a literary technique that emphasizes the use of vivid and expressive language to create immersive imagery and evoke sensory experiences. Unlike bare-bones prose that focuses solely on conveying information, painted prose infuses narratives with vibrant colors, textures, sounds, smells, and tastes. It engages the reader's senses, transporting them into the heart of the story and allowing them to experience its world on a deeper level. Through carefully chosen words and detailed descriptions, authors paint a vivid canvas in the reader's mind, transforming mere words into an art form.
By Ndlangamandla Thulasizwe3 years ago in Art
Unrestrained Desire
A young artist by the name of Gamardi found himself lured by the mysterious smile of the Mona Lisa while wandering the busy streets of contemporary Paris. He was overcome by a wave of emotions when she cast a curious look his way. Gamardi set out on a path that would combine fiction, dishonesty, and the depths of infatuation after being inspired by her allure.
By Gloria Anderson3 years ago in Art
Uncle Willie
My uncle was always famous. At least in our house he was. His name was William James Thomas Jr. Which was his stage name. Yeah, he had a stage name his entire life. His real name was William Omar Jones, but he said that didn't have enough pop. He also said the Jr always makes you sound more important. That someone wanted to make sure people knew you belonged to them.
By Tyrone Livingston3 years ago in Art
Wanderlust
Thin air burned in his lungs. For a moment, just a hint of a moment, he considered the wagon slowly trundling along behind him. But that was pointless, he would still only be able to travel at the pace of the slowest porter; and besides, it was better to spare the horses at these altitudes. Not for the first time, he looked around as a broad grin split his face. Mountains are never so glorious as when one is on foot between their massive shoulders.
By Alexander McEvoy3 years ago in Art
Sunrise on the Bay
The sun was setting over the small fishing village of Saint-Pierre, casting a warm orange glow over the old stone buildings and the peaceful harbor. It was a quiet evening, with only the sound of the waves lapping against the shore and the occasional call of a seagull breaking the silence.
By Karla Valentina Salamanca3 years ago in Art