Canon Artwork Novels & Stories

I'm sure my religious Russian mother would've had a heart attack if she knew what I was doing right now, but I couldn't be bothered enough to care. A blank canvas has unlimited possibilities. While we start out painting the perfect picture, things don't always go as planned. Our canvas got smudged along the way. We accidentally mixed the wrong colors, and some of the lines turned out jagged. At the end of it though, it's ours, and that's what makes it priceless.

Tanaka met us in the gallery, a man in his seventies with impeccable English and an obvious passion for contemporary art. "Ms. Carter, I have been following your career since the MoMA acquisition. Your work demonstrates rare combination of technical skill and emotional intelligence." He led us through his collection—Rothko, Kusama, Basquiat, pieces worth millions displayed with reverence and care. "I would like to acquire one of your paintings. From the Tokyo series specifically. It would honor the exhibition." "Which piece interests you?" "The seventh in the series. The one exploring necessary distance within partnership. It speaks to something I have learned in forty-eight years of marriag

The sun was setting, painting the room in warm gold and soft shadows. Nora stood before a canvas, brush poised but unmoving. “You’re not painting,” Jaden said quietly. “I am,” she replied, though her hand trembled slightly. “You’ve been staring at that same spot for ten minutes.” She sighed and lowered the brush. “I don’t know what I’m afraid of more. I'm messing it up… or getting it right.” Jaden stepped closer, careful, slow. “Art’s not about perfection, Nora. It’s about truth.”

A daisy blooming toward the sun from a bookstore window. The gallery was crowded—locals, tourists, even professional curators. They lingered before my paintings, offering sincere words of praise. A distinguished silver-haired woman approached me. She introduced herself as the artistic director of a renowned New York gallery. Handing me her card, she extended a formal invitation to join their next season's joint exhibition. From across the room, Nathan did not come over. He simply raised his champagne glass toward me, his lips curving into a proud smile. Just then—someone else forced their way through the crowd.

“Limited edition painting. If you wanna buy it, you gotta place a bid. Or, get them for free if you sign up for the club.” He shrugged, feeling victorious. The people were silent, unsure of what to say. Malorie stepped forward, still gaping at the painting. “You…” she began. “It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” Cain boasted. “It’s...marvelously bad!” Malorie exclaimed. “What the hell is this?” She pointed at the painting consisting of stick figures in different colors. The shapes were off, looking like an artwork by a kindergarten student. “This is comic art!” Cain claimed. “This looks as if a child drew it!” she hissed. “This isn’t how you make a comic strip!”

Not only that, you're just jealous and can't take it when someone else's outstanding. I nodded slowly. "Yeah, you're right. I should be a saint and forgive my boyfriend for pursuing his artistic awakening instead of spending time with me on my birthday. Is that right?" "Exactly! You'll still have your birthday next year, but this was Bianca's only time to capture her prime youth. Once it's gone, it's gone. I was just helping a friend chase her dreams. What's wrong with that?" "You're absolutely right," I said approvingly. "If that's how much you love art, then go for it. We're done."

The origins of most of these paintings could be tracked easily. There was "Cottage of the West", painted by Daryn Talbott, one of the four greatest artists of the Monclair era. Then, there were Zenith Howard's creations, including "The Ten Bamboos", "Great Compendium of Life", and "Scroll of Injustice".

I stand tall in front of the easel. "I think if I'm the subject, I should have a right to know, shouldn't I" He folds his arms. I swallow. "No. My art is not for viewing." I stand firm. He nods. "So, you've said. But technically, I already know what I look like, so you might as well show me." "No." I cross my arms. "I could command you to show me." He smirks. "Please don't." I whine.

Alex and Zane had a good conversation, engaging in a back-and-forth where both parties understood each other's intentions. Candice remained silent until Zane suddenly noticed the file booklet she was holding. He exclaimed, "Ms. Renault, have you also been paying attention to Blue Artifact before?" In Candice's hands was an art catalog from Blue Artifact, and the first page on the cover featured a relatively obscure series from a couple of years ago. Zane’s interest was piqued. "The products from this series are not considered popular, nor are they cultural relics. It was just an inspiration from a small studio under us at the time. The popularity has always been low. How would Ms. Renault kn