Novel & Cerita Painter Aesthetic

He had a penthouse suite, which I wasn't surprised by. When we got in, he excused himself to go and change and then told me where I could get some wine and where the glasses were. The penthouse was gorgeous. It had some inviting warm colours like velvets and whites and oranges. It was very tastefully curated. Probably done by a designer. Nobody had recognized when we were out because he was wearing a cap and had the hood on most of the time.

Admiring these paintings was a source of enjoyment for some. But for an artist, enjoyment could be derived from admiring just about any object of beauty. Cynthia's beauty called to them. Cynthia was studying a painting when a tall and handsome young man walked over to her and gave a comment on the painting, “A distinct feature of this painting is that there seems to be a sort of fluidity between the compatible and the incompatible tones. It appears that the painter is an uninhibited person.”

His eyes held humor now and I gave myself a mental gold star for putting it there. “But then I’d have to use more than one color of paint,” he replied, the rumble of his voice making me think of the rare rainy morning when I could burrow under the covers and sleep in. I leaned my forearms on the counter, angling in and shamelessly inhaling his scent. He smelled like he rolled around in a pile of fall leaves before stepping foot inside my shop. “That’s generally the idea.” He full-out grinned and my heart stopped. “I prefer a monochromatic masterpiece.”

While some bold ones were actually sleeping. Rabbit, however, looked one blink away from collapsing face-first onto his desk. Noah’s eyes narrowed slightly. “…and Wilde uses aestheticism not merely as philosophy,” he continued evenly, voice smooth as he resumed pacing slowly across the front of the room, “but as a shield. Dorian’s obsession with beauty becomes an excuse to separate himself from consequence.” Rabbit’s head dipped again. This time lower. A strand of white hair slipped across his face as he blinked heavily. His pink eyes were surrounded by a sea of pale red.

“It’s like the one outside our window!” I smiled, setting down my bag. “You have a good eye, sweetheart.” Beside him, Aiden frowned in concentration, his little hands clasped behind his back like a tiny art critic. “It looks more… orange than the real one.” “That’s what artists do,” I said softly, crouching beside them. “They don’t paint what they see — they paint what they feel.” He blinked at that. “Like how I felt sad when we left school today?”

Tattered drapes hung in front of a missing window. Aimee took several photographs from all different angles of the paraphernalia that littered the home. She changed lenses, filters, zoomed in and zoomed out. She heard Clint moving about, but as soon as she started clicking away, she only had attention for what she saw through her lens. She abandoned herself to what spoke to her. Others saw a broken chair or trash. Aimee saw beauty that reached out to her from the past. Art was about what you could make others see and feel. If the piece spoke to her, she could make it speak to others, and that is what she wanted, to speak to people.