"Excuse me, would you consider selling?"
"What one do you like?"
"blue hues."
"It's your's."
"Can I please give you a fifty. Why don't you sign your work?"
"During the Renaissance artists didn't sign the works because the artist was the vessel used by the art to express itself."
It has always been the colors that directed my art. I would have a vague idea of the art I wanted to create, but the colors always had a mind of their own. Much how a sirens song calls to innocent humans, the colors pick the artist.
Sent via the Samsung
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from simplicity and writers in Fiction and other communities.
The Conceptual Planet: Into Outer Space-Micah's Story
Days blend and continue on undisturbed for the most part. There is a lot of waiting in between workouts and eating. There is one repair we are working on. Other than the repair it's all monitoring and stand by. Monotony feels more tirtiring than his workouts and work. Days ends come around and sleep is attempted. We all are adjusting and have interacted minimally so far. We seem humbled by our surroundings and task. Sutton is the crew member easiest to be around. Today passes uneventfully. Sleep comes after counting to around 89. Probably out of boredom and a desire to stop counting.
By simplicityExclusive • 11 months ago
LHS Class of 01 Reunion '16
Megan drifted into Joan’s kitchen with a tote bag slung over her shoulder, the faint rustle of recycled school yearbooks still echoing in her mind. The sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a warm amber glow over the mismatched tableware that Joan had gathered for the upcoming gathering. As they set down mugs of steaming tea, the two women fell into a rhythm of conversation that quickly pivoted to the logistics of merging two seemingly disparate events: the high‑school reunion for the class of ’01 and Mrs. Wilkes’ long‑awaited retirement celebration. Megan, her eyes bright with the thrill of nostalgia, suggested they treat the day as a “dual‑honor” affair, allowing the former classmates to reminisce while simultaneously honoring the beloved teacher who had shaped their adolescent lives. Joan, ever the pragmatist, began to sketch a timeline on a scrap of notepad, noting the inevitable conflicts of crowd flow, dietary preferences, and the delicate balance required to honor both milestones without one eclipsing the other.
By Forest Greenabout an hour ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
❤️Nice work 😎‼️