Invisible Woman Art Novels & Stories

she whispered, her voice trembling with shock. "This...is this you?" The woman on the canvas was curled up in a tangle of wild, overgrown weeds, her frame painfully thin, her expression blank and numb. But her eyes burned with a stubborn, desperate will to survive. Heavy iron chains bound her wrists and ankles, fixing her to a crumbling wall. The chains were long enough to let her move just enough to survive, but never enough to escape. In an instant, Laura understood. It was a self-portrait. A depiction of the time Adora had been kidnapped and imprisoned.

Carried them with me like a normal person doing normal things. Around noon, I found myself in front of a small art gallery. The kind Vincent would probably love. I walked in. The walls were covered in paintings by local artists. Some abstract. Some realistic. All of them interesting in different ways. I wandered slowly, letting myself actually look instead of just performing appreciation. One painting stopped me completely. A woman standing at a window, looking out at the city. You couldn't see her face. Just her back, her silhouette against the light. But something about her posture felt familiar. Lonely. Searching.

“That’s one of his works.” Carly suddenly took an interest in the art, inspecting it. “It’s new, around two years old. The artist is inspired by his emotion, particularly his pain. In my opinion, losing the woman’s eye represents her refusal to see the truth before her. Or she was too blinded by her ambition, her future, to see what was right in front of her. Your brother-in-law has his way with colors. He’s good.” I swallowed hard, crossing my arms over my chest. I was not only impressed by her analysis, but she impressed me. Who the hell is this woman?

Some were oil paintings; some were made of watercolor or pencils. They all represented different horrid scenes of a woman getting whipped, a woman getting stripped, a woman getting stub, a woman getting raped in all possible positions, and a woman getting tortured in every possible way. Every time, the woman was almost naked with a scared, innocent, pitiful face. Every time the woman was abused and used mercilessly. And every time the woman painted was the same. She was Flora. SHE WAS FLORA!

She was left with no choice and left alongside Nicholas who said that he will send her to the library before he leaves. Zinnia already knew that saying no will only annoy the overly doting man and so she didn’t react to it anymore. She can only allow the man to pamper her to his heart's content. As they walked past the tall gigantic walls, Zinnia went silent as she felt the extreme familiarity from the artworks hanging on the wall. Some of the framed artworks had names on them while the others didn't. Most of them were sketches of forests, wolves, the moon, and some kind of artwork about a goddess that somehow causes her mind to go blank from time to time.

Of course, the paintings were about her. “A faceless woman,” Ivy begins. “I painted this because I do—I—” “Did you paint this, Ivy?” “Of course I did.” “Then tell me about it.” “It's a woman who doesn't have a face because she doesn't know who she is. At night, she puts on one face, and by day, another. She's in a state of dilemma; she doesn't know who she is—she's a faceless woman.” “Literature would have suited you, 60. Next.”

It seemed to be the only one I could express my thoughts with even though others were beautiful. The image drawn by a 'Fransesco' portrayed a heavily pregnant woman locked up in a cage like prison as the artist had curls like rope curled on to her wrist. I bit my lips, wasn't it everything? Trapped, imprisoned and controlled against wishes and pregnant except that the art was heavily pregnant and my belly swells were not too obvious yet. I looked around as everyone stood in front of one art to the other, I nodded, the exhibition seemed to go great and probably relate with everyone but there was no one to stand with this one?

Which is in ruins, it urgently needs renovation here. I walk briskly and the door is open, but before I can touch the handle, the door is opened and a couple walks by, we greet each other with a nod of the head and I enter. A woman wearing only a simple dress and you can tell she is pregnant. She sadly looks at me. - Good morning, are you Mrs. Silva? - I ask politely. - Yes, and who are you? - I am Iuri Stevens, the new owner - I speak and give a small smile.

Drake asked him in a challenging tone. “ Ian Evans doesn't appreciate a no in answer. Since you're daring enough to challenge me, I'm willing enough to take it up. So let's get to the business... Regarding your artwork, it clearly speaks about the story of a woman. A woman, who wants to fly and shine with her own colours but held back by the society and people around her. Your rough line shows the roughness of the path she chose. She has uncountable colours inside her with which she can paint her own life story but her hands are tied with chains of thoughts by others. She has an invisible tear in her eyes but she decided to put her brave front to the world with her smile. You want to show th

Her skin looked pale under the bright lights, her face sharp and serious. The canvas in front of her showed piece twelve of her series *Shatter & Mend*. It was a woman’s body cut down the middle. One side was fixed with thin gold lines. The other side fell apart into black paint that dripped down. She picked up a wide brush, dipped it in dark blue, and pulled it across the break in one slow line. The color spread into the cracks. Six weeks left until her final exhibition. Six weeks to show everyone that the guy who stole her ideas and laughed about it hadn’t destroyed her.