art

The best relationship art depicts the highs and lows of the authentic couple.

The Artist
#74 Pen and paper kiss eloquently in the fading light. Red and gold leap between the clouds, flirting with stone and concrete and rippling water as the earth diligently spins on its axis, heedless to the pair of eyes straining to soak in every beam and detail of light. A careless precision, at once angry and eager and desperate, possesses the muscles and sinews of the prematurely worn fingers of the man who stands on the old bridge, shivering in the autumn breeze. Etchings and lines become form, conversing in inked dialogue, a silent summons to notice the glorious tragedy of the instance the fleeting sun slips away into slumber.
By Lili Jane5 years ago in Humans
My Teacher, Monet
“A dolphin swimming in a vast ocean— no, a pink dolphin swimming in a vast ocea—a pink three eyed dolphin swimming in a vast ocean? Agh! Why is it so difficult to come up with something meaningful to paint?” Julissa barked at herself with a pink colored pencil in one hand and the other clenched in a fist.
By VIANA KALILI5 years ago in Humans
A Paint Stroke of Luck
It was a life or death situation. Fay had to have it. This is why she went to these auctions. Her love of art lured her to the excitement of what new piece could be hers, even though she should’ve been saving up for the art studio that she so desperately craved.
By Megan McNeal5 years ago in Humans
The Black Book
“Do I hear twenty-five thousand… twenty-five thousand? Offering the diary of Sien Hoornik, girlfriend of Vincent Van Gogh. Last bid is twenty-thousand… twenty-thousand. Fair warning. Going once… going twice…” The knock of the gavel: “Sold! On the phone… twenty thousand!” It was late in the afternoon, and my prized possession was sold.
By Jim Denzler5 years ago in Humans
A Carved Box
Despite the overcast skies and the threat of rain, the estate sale that day is large, covering at least an acre with farm equipment, wooden furniture, and everything in between with a large turnout. Among them, Caroline, who owns two thrift stores, isn’t interested in the farm equipment and other big things instead, she watches for the boxes of miscellaneous stuff – these are where the hidden treasures are found – in her opinion, with over 12-years-experience guiding her choices. Occasionally, she’ll buy a trunk or small desk for the possible treasures within.
By Merrie Jackson5 years ago in Humans
Paul Klee and the Ant
Colonist MyrmidaAleph201 has embarked on her third excursion of the morning. She leaves the nest in the flowerbox and wanders up the warm bricks of the house. The trail is strongest here; the pheromones as bright as a boulevard set ablaze. Her fellow incoming Colonists stop to stroke her antenna briefly as she passes. She can taste their enthusiasm.
By P. D. Murray5 years ago in Humans
Black as Charcoal
Jake looked at its watch. 10:52, “Bloody Hell!” he had missed his bus by 3 minutes. The N68 was only going by on the half hour, he would need to take the 189 to Marble Arch station and then transfer onto route 36 “22 minutes to KCH”. He would be at best 15 minutes late for its appointment. That is, if the next bus was on time.
By A. R.5 years ago in Humans
Lost in Color
Lost in Color I sit outside a café, drinking coffee and eating bits of a croissant as my fingers peel apart its layers this early Parisian morning. The light is soft and allows me to enjoy the movements of color along the street before the harshness of the midday sun makes squinting a requirement. It is still early. Traffic is subdued, and area residents are just starting their morning trek to work.
By John Newbanks5 years ago in Humans
The Grand Scheme of Things
On the last day in Venice it rained. The city on the water was still beautiful, still had an elegance to her, just as an aging Hollywood star possesses a glimmer of youthful allure. Puddling through the narrow alleyways, I heard only the sound of sloshing footsteps and umbrellas scraping against the brick walls as I passed alongside strangers, lifting my umbrella up or down to accommodate the oncoming tourist.
By Michelle Wang5 years ago in Humans
Portrait in the Empty Canvas
Colour has taken possession of me; no longer do I have to chase after it. I know that it has hold of me forever… Colour and I are one. I am a painter. – Paul Klee
By Rahman Khan5 years ago in Humans
I See You
Last month on the third Sunday I visited a new coffee shop. I usually like to go to the park near the university I teach at to people watch, but the rain shifted my plans. Now before you start thinking I’m a creep, I want to mention I’m an artist. Hmmm after hearing that out loud… you probably still think I’m a creep. Let me give you some context. When I was 9, my mother and I would go to the farmers market every Sunday. I loved it. The energy, the food, and seeing my mother in her element was something I will never forget. My mother had a corporate job for her 9-5, but her passion was jewelry making. She could spend hours twisting copper into beautiful spirals and each piece was unique. Sometimes I would even catch her twisting the copper with her eyes closed. That’s when my sketches switched from pictures of items to pictures of people caught in a moment, but I could never capture her beauty the way I saw it. That’s what frustrated me the most. Have you ever seen a sunset and tried to take a picture of it? The picture on your phone never ends up looking like the real thing. So, you end up putting your phone back in your pocket and enjoying it with your eyes before it fades away. That was my mom. She was beautiful. Her hair was dark like licorice, skin kissed by the sun and smooth like butter. Her style. So cool. She always had some nice boots on with a chunky heel and wrist full of bracelets. She even made elegant clips that she would incorporate in her hair when she did a high low style. My mother also had a warm aura that seemed to radiate from her. The farmers market was a place that she could be herself unapologetically with people outside of her home. I don’t think she could do that at her 9-5. I kept practicing and practicing, but I still struggled with capturing my mom in her element. I gave up and started sketching different people I would see at the market. My sketching got really good. Some people would even purchase the sketch I made of them. Seeing that other people also enjoyed my art led me to follow a career in it, but that changed at the beginning of the year when my mom got sick. I took a sabbatical from work, gave up sketching in my free time, and became my mom’s full-time nurse. I mention this because when she passed, I found out she left me a box. It was odd because even though I was always there by her side (even during her last breath) she never mentioned this box. I didn’t find it until I visited her jewelry room a week after the service. It was there just sitting on her table with a lavender bow. (That was my favorite color, but the real reason I loved that color was because she always smelled like lavender.) Inside there was a small black notebook, her favorite copper earrings, and a bunch of pictures. As I flipped through the pictures, I stopped at a polaroid my dad took when she was pregnant with me. She was sitting in front of the bay window my dad built. Her eyes closed, calmly twisting 2 thin pieces of copper wire. She knew me better than I knew myself. I think she never mentioned the box because I used to spend hours sketching. Although I love art, I love my mom more and there was nothing she could say that would convince me to take time away from being by her side. She knew I would find that box when I really needed it, and that day I really needed an outlet. So, early that Sunday morning I walked to the coffee shop with my small black notebook ready to sketch bystanders. I was surprised to see the coffee shop was rather empty that morning. I looked around for inspiration. I see the barista. He had on a cool hat, but then he dug up his nose and flicked it. Naturally, I am no longer inspired by the hat or interested in ordering coffee. I continued searching for inspiration. I paused on a flyer on the wall. It was for a competition for all forms of art. The prize was $20,000 and the only requirement was that it must tell a story. I put my bookbag in the chair beside me and pulled out the pictures from the box. Three stood out. The first one was of my mom getting ready for work. Her hair pulled back in a tight low bun. She gazes in the mirror putting on a pair of copper pendant earrings. She had added a small pink pearl. She figured if she couldn’t wear what she really wanted then she would add some sparkle to her accessories. The second one was the polaroid of her in front of the bay window. My favorite. The third one was of me and her at the market. Her hair was down. She was wearing a flowy dress, long spirally earrings (made by her of course), and then right next to her you see me smiling with my notebook in my lap and pencil in hand. I spent the rest of the month recreating these three pictures. Each painted on their own canvas, but I connected them using copper wire. Unfortunately, I didn’t end up submitting them. Not because I did not like how they came out, but because of the opposite. I love it, and creating it was a therapeutic process I didn’t know I needed. I usually embrace criticism, but for a piece so personal I wasn’t ready.
By Yohnei5 years ago in Humans
Black Things and Bright Things
September, 2021 "I like having a new notebook. It feels like I could start again. I have to finish this one first; that’s the rule. But the new one’s here. It’s here beside me now, waiting. The cover is soft and smooth. It’s not shiny, it’s a matt black which you feel you could fall into and get lost in, like a summer midnight. The elastic feels secure; it holds the pages together, so none of my thoughts can go missing, or escape, or get seen.
By Jane Hunter5 years ago in Humans