Invisible Woman Art Novels & Stories

This is just too messed up. I take a deep breath and march down the rest of the stairs. A painting on the end catches my attention, compelling me to stop and stare at it. In the painting, a glowing woman with beautiful green hair floats in the air. Her features are blurred but in the light that shines around her, she looks like an Angel...or maybe, A Goddess. Besides the floating woman, there is another image of the same Goddess, now bound into shackles as a man stands in front of her.

She smiled, lifted her chin and swaggered in ostentatiously, joining in on the group chatters while they waited for the boss. They moved into the conference room and sat according to their positions in the institution, herself almost being the last, except for three other people who she didn't think were supposed to be there. The door opened and in walked a man looking all smug and oozing wealth as he sat at the head of the table. "Sorry I'm late" was all he mumbled as he looked at them one after the other. There were about twelve of them and she just happened to be the ninth. "Well, I'm Andrew Williams. I suppose you all know that by now, ownership of this business was transferred to me", h

They were both fucking celebrities in the art world. No wonder they could afford a house here. People went crazy to see paintings of naked people. She flipped over from painting to painting that was on the internet. Their bestseller was a woman in her late 50's from the paintings, her fingers buried in a hairy pussy, thick cream soaking the floor, asshole visible. The more paintings she saw, the nastier it got. She wondered if these people they painted were real. The dicks and pussies she saw on the screen made her breath grow shallow. Her free hand slipped under the sheets, bunching her night shirt up her waist.

But the truth was far more complicated. The gallery was a chic, minimalist space in the heart of the city's art district. White walls, polished concrete floors, and strategically placed lighting showcased her artwork: bold, abstract pieces that pulsed with raw emotion. Each canvas was a testament to her journey, a visual representation of her pain, her resilience, and her hard-won independence.

My jaw dropped to the ground the moment I stepped into the penthouse. It wasn't just a penthouse… rather an atelier. Several canvas boards, each with different beautiful paintings lined in the room. My breath caught in my throat as my gaze stilled over one of the paintings. A painting of a woman standing before a mirror. The woman in the painting was naked, her back skin was cracked, stitched together with threads. Hair tattered, and skin dirty… Then her reflection. It was a different person. Perfectly dressed, looking beautiful and happy… Like the other woman was broken so the one in the mirror could be happy.

the woman observed, her voice attuned to the cadence of sincerity. Taking in the gravity of her words, Marvis met the gaze of the enigmatic visitor, whose presence bore the promise of transformation. The woman introduced herself as Amelia Sterling, a fervent art enthusiast with a keen eye for discovering burgeoning talent. "Your art is a lyrical enigma, an unfiltered narrative that resonates with unspoken truths. What you've crafted here transcends mere artistry. It's a manifestation of resilience," Amelia continued, her admiration threading through each syllable.

An older woman with silver hair and a walking stick moved slowly from painting to painting, her face thoughtful, her eyes missing nothing. But gradually, i drifted toward my own room. I stood just outside the entrance, pretending to study a sculpture I didn't care about, while I watched people filter in and out. A young couple emerged, the woman clutching the man's arm and saying, "The hands. Did you see the hands? They're devastating." A man in a suit stopped to read my placard, nodded to himself, and walked in. When he came out five minutes later, he was on his phone. "No, find out who represents her. The emerging artist, Ava Chen. I want to know if anything is still available."

Everything operates from the money bartering and I have no idea how one acquires these papers and coins that I've seen others use. A gust of wind brings a strong whiff of Remus scent and my heart beats quicker. I know it's not him, but could his blanket me near? I bolt up just in time to have a magazine blow into the thicket by me. It smells of him, and little shiver travels down my spine. I squeeze the jar in a loving manner and I whisper a thank you into the air. I pick up the magazine and it is some sort of primping article. It shows gorgeous females of all colors painting their faces and brushing their locks. Females bathing with thick white bubbles in their water and wearing bright colo

You could feel the atmosphere of your favorite time of year - autumn. Leah's gaze, wandering through store windows, was caught by two paintings in gilded frames, hanging surrounded by shelves of books and art supplies. One of the works depicted a red-haired girl in a short shirt. She was sleeping and at the same time floating in the air, touching the muddy surface of the swamp water with her fingertips and feet. It was as if invisible hands were grabbing her under the lower back, and she, bending in a shape unnatural for the spine, remained frozen in time. Another work was a parody of the “Vitruvian Man”, only instead of a man, the figure of a naked woman was placed in a circle and square. W

“There are three women inside. They beckon with hands that have too many fingers, and watch with faces that have too many eyes, and even their eyes have too many pupils. Their skin is . . . un-gentle. One has a breast that is more cube than sphere. Another has only one breast, and the third’s are mismatched, one much larger than the other. I see an eye where a navel should be. I see a mouth that is too wide on one side, stretching up into the cheek with a grin that reveals uneven fangs. The sight of these women is repulsive, and yet I am compelled by their tantalizing scent. A tendril of flesh coils out from the door, beckoning me as a finger would. Come hither, it says. I am frightened. I s