Artwork Essay Novels & Stories

"It's afraid." I looked up, and his eyes God, those eyes held mine. "You're hiding." The words hit like a slap. My throat burned. He leaned in, just slightly. "Art isn't about pretty lines, Rachel." His voice was rough, intimate. "It's about tearing yourself open and letting people see what's inside. Even the ugly parts. Especially the ugly parts." I exhaled, shaky. "And if I don't like what's inside?" His thumb brushed the edge of the paper

It all felt so surreal. "You have to submit a brilliant art piece by the end of the semester. I'll suggest that you take your time to delve deep and create a piece that is not only brilliant but that will create an emotional resonance. Lots of artists think that a painting is just as good as how good you can strike colour and ash on the canvas, but there is more to it than that. I've seen it in your work, the raw talent mixed with passion, rage, love and depth; that is why I'm offering you this chance. Do not let me down." "I won't, ma", Lorraine replied

Today was the day she had to present her project proposal for the final assessment in her advanced art class, and she was determined to make it memorable. The topic she had chosen was inspired by her recent experiences with William and the transformative power of art. She wanted to explore the theme of identity and self-expression through mixed media, incorporating various materials to represent the layers of personality and the struggles of self-discovery. It was personal, yet universal—a reflection of her own journey as an artist and a person.

The splatter of an ink, on a paper can be messy, but sometimes it looks like an artwork, to some people and to other people… Well we might have to figure out what it means to them.…

It was a simple yet profound expression of beauty, a testament to the power of art to transcend words and touch the soul. “Wow!” Professor Jones exclaimed, his words echoing through the art studio. “Now I can tell…” He paused, glancing briefly in another direction before focusing his attention back on my painting. “Stanley, you have competition this time,” he declared, his gaze lingering on the canvas. I could feel Stanley’s eyes boring into my artwork, and a sense of apprehension crept over me. Had I inadvertently invited trouble by creating something that caught his attention? Yet, I couldn’t deny the satisfaction of knowing that my painting had made an impression.

They had only kissed a few times and these were actually more like smooches. "Pottery is an art," Cathy was saying, as she stood up and walked around the room, "and each work of art is unique because it represents you. You are what you create and every person is a unique human being just as no two fingerprints are alike. You can even mold a roaring lion from that clump of clay."

Her face had that particular quality it got when something had reached her in a way that bypassed the usual processing open and unguarded in a way that she was mostly not, these days, though she had been working toward it. "Ms. Okafor thinks I should enter it in the regional student exhibition," I said. "In January." "Do you want to?" I considered the question seriously. "Yes and no. I want people to see it because I think it says something that's hard to say with words. But I'm also not sure I want to explain it. Every time someone asks what a painting means you have to choose between telling the real answer and telling an answer that fits in a conversation, and they're usually not the same

He led her out of the room. "Where are we going to?" Arthur didn't reply but continued walking until they got the hallway filled with art works and stopped, "do you remember this place?" he asked. "Yes, it was the first place I saw you in person when I gatecrashed your party." Arthur chuckled, "You're right." Arthur nodded. "Do you know behind each artist work is an intention or message they want to pass?" "I know that quite well." "Why do you think a good artist would hide their works?"

“I’ll take it.” She turned her head my way, her green eyes beautiful under the art lights. If someone painted a portrait of her, I would buy it in a heartbeat—whatever the price might be. “You’re sure? It’s a big responsibility.” “Having a painting?” I asked incredulously. “This isn’t just a painting. It’s a piece of history. Artwork isn’t something you ever truly own. It’s like a home. You keep it for a while, enjoy it for decades. But when you’re finished, you sell it to someone else. It’s never really yours to begin with. You’re just paying to borrow it—for a period of time.”

“But this one feels empty. It seems like you had no real feeling behind it—you just wanted to draw something and that was it.” “Elaborate,” he says, sitting on the bed beside me. The closeness makes me shift uncomfortably. “When you present a piece as an artist, you need people to feel something. They should sense the thought process, the emotion, the meaning behind even a simple tree. It should almost come to life on the page—” “Okay, this makes no sense. It’s just a drawing,” he cuts in. I roll my eyes, ready to respond, when a notification lights up my phone. My stomach drops the second I open the email. My art has been rejected—for the tenth time.