Captain Rex Artwork Novels & Stories

They were far enough down that hall that was felt alone enough to get comfortable. I walked along the hall, dipping into each small makeshift room to view whatever painting was on display. The first room held a painting called Sailboat, by Jumper Maybach. It was so wide and large, that it ran from wall to wall. Underneath the artist’s name was a dollar sign and a number. Twenty-Seven thousand.

The room was revealed again. All of it. He stood there, his head slightly bowed. Paula looked around once more. “I thought you stopped drawing,” she said. “I started again…” Rex replied quietly. She nodded slowly, still staring at the paintings. Then she paused “Isn’t this… your brother’s girlfriend?” she asked. Rex didn’t respond. She turned to him. “Why are you painting her?” she asked again. “It’s just her… everywhere.” Rex swallowed. “It’s because we are friends,” he said. “She’s my muse.”

Tyler Morrison appeared in the doorway, his expression shifting from friendly to stunned as he took in the canvases covering every available surface. "Celeste." He moved slowly through the space, studying each piece. "These are... I had no idea." "They're just practice," I said quickly. "Nothing serious." "Nothing serious?" He stopped in front of the woman-in-water painting. "This is exceptional work. Raw, honest, technically brilliant." He turned to face me. "I want to feature you in a show." My breath caught. "What?" "I'm curating an exhibition of emerging artists in six weeks. You'd be perfect. Six to eight pieces—I'd love to include these storm series." His enthusiasm was genuine, infect

Cameron decided tapping on the glass bowl in order to get the creature within to hiss and dance. “It’s cool,” Rhett replied. He’d stolen some of Aislen’s art supplies and was drawing the creature in various poses. “My customers will love these designs,” he said, using a hairband to tie his hair back out of his face, his biceps bunching and straining at the fabric of his top as he did so.

When they had chosen her favorite for the competition, she'd screamed with joy and done a little happy dance, glad Killian hadn't been in the house to hear or see her. She had actually wrapped it in brown paper herself before Killian drove her to the city to get it shipped. She wasn't taking any chances he'd catch a glimpse of it and refuse to let her show it. She classified her work as prairie art, leaning toward the Western of Frederick Remington and Charles M. Russell. Except, where they'd concentrated on the West of the late nineteenth century, Lexie had focused on the contemporary scenes of today.

His face was bruised all over and the intricate lines of his hurt skin were painted in detail. The painting was raw , capturing the essence of his superiority. “Alpha Rex sits for one every month and puts it up. The old ones are brought back here.” It was why there were so many. It was why he looked different in some because he painted himself as he aged. “But why?” I asked. “He believes he might lose himself one day, the paintings are reminders of who he truly is.” “When you say he might lose himself, are you talking about his alter ego?” I asked.