art
The best relationship art depicts the highs and lows of the authentic couple.
The Oriental Market
There were no real signs in the oriental market. They were never printed on thick cardstock and inserted in a neat metal frame, or even typed up and taped to a shelf. It could almost always be assumed that any produce sign had been made by ripping apart some random cardboard box nearby and scribbling Chinese and an English translation on it in thick sharpie.
By MarySandra Do5 years ago in Humans
The Vagabond’s Song
“Been talked out out loud, for millennia...” “Babe I’ll be, blinded by enemies...” The mysterious traveler sings quietly to herself “it’s the underground...” She rounds a corner onto an antiquated canal bridge, polka dot umbrella swinging in one hand, little black book tucked under the other.
By Stanzi Hope Wellington5 years ago in Humans
The Misrepresentation of a Wild Thing
The man painted himself in all the wrong colours. He drowned his thoughts in whiskey and found his mirky likeness in the bottom of a glass. He got in quarrels and woke in foggy mornings, with a mirror of black and blue remember me bye’s, hiding his true features behind their inky stains. He rarely bathed, sitting in a bath seemed like a rotten thing to him, his black hair course and matted against his skin like some unwanted dog, though this man had house and home. Apathy soaked the room, drenching into the curtains and the walls, staining their colours grey. That same shade dripped its colours into the foundations of the house in tiny little percussions, like rain that causes the wood to rot and mellow, so that as he walked across the floorboards it fawned beneath his weight and he heard those same doubts creaking back at him, as if they were a real thing, a noise of the world and not a product of his own imagining. You see our man had fallen into the worst of sicknesses, the belief that he was a worthless thing.
By Marius Van Den Berg5 years ago in Humans
The Restoration
Nina leaned over the sink with her nose nearly touching the mirror and carefully penciled in her upper lash line. The sickly fluorescent lights of the 24 hour gym were doing her under eye bags absolutely no favors. She startled as the locker room door suddenly slammed and the pencil scraped her eye.
By Erin Gildea5 years ago in Humans
The Book on the Bench
It was just sitting there, alone on the bench's wooden slats, almost invisible in the grey November afternoon. I didn't even notice it until I sat down. I recognized it at once, of course; I have had so many of those little books tucked into pockets and bags over the years, with their smooth black covers and their snappy elastics, and the page-mark peeking out one end or another. I had come there to think, but suddenly all the greater issues were brushed away by the smaller. Who had left it? Did they know they had lost it? I jerked my head up and scanned the garden, looking for someone nearby, someone searching, anyone whom the notebook might belong to. But it was a cold day in the Tuileries when only a wandering and preoccupied soul would linger, and the few people there were only shapes in the distance.
By Valerie Thibodaux5 years ago in Humans
A Study in Provenance
From up close, the paint strokes came out as individual colors and shapes, each with its own deliberate intent. Taking a few steps back, Byron Mar’s unwavering gaze could nearly startle a viewer. His intensity in real life matched how his painterly circles often found him, scribbling, arguing, becoming consumed by any one of the artists and intellectuals around him. Funny how perception plays in a piece like this, all those actions taken years ago creating a sort of portal for the present to look through. A screaming child interrupted Andi’s conference with the artist’s self-portrait. She whipped her head around to see the child and relief- it was just Lucius. He made a face as he approached her on the unwelcoming museum bench to face Mar’s self portrait.
By Madison Kelley5 years ago in Humans
Ensemble
It was 5 AM in the morning and she opened up the small Moleskine black notebook in front of her and was again transported back in time. She looked up for a moment. She had landed less than an hour ago, and from her seat in front of the small café near the Champs-Elysée she could see the whole city begin to awaken. It was as if she were transported back thirty years in time, and in an instant, she felt young and alive again. She thought back over the incidents of the past week and just what had brought her back to this place.
By carey green5 years ago in Humans
Raye’s Extra Ordinary Life
Raye Doxon has a relatively ordinary life. She goes to school and work, gets her assignments done on time at the library, and enjoys her nightly movie marathons. But if there’s one thing missing, it has to be a sense of purpose. Something that enriches her soul beyond imagination and fills that void in her chest.
By Brooke Guasch5 years ago in Humans
The Art of the Fire
Sometimes I questioned the way that mankind had set up the world. Why were there some people, unhappy people at that, with billions of dollars, while others, people with dreams and passions, worked to the bone only to scrape by? I sat on the curb numbly as I gazed up at the orange flames that licked at my home. Just like that, all that I owned was being devoured by a merciless fire. It was a freak accident the fireman said, something about old electric wiring.
By Gena Cohen5 years ago in Humans
