Painter Poems Novels & Stories

The painter is a healer of the self and others, for their art is a story told in the foundational languages of the brain - in emotion, in visual dream-language. And so their painting is societal medicine and the reason we are so drawn to art becomes ever more obvious. The painting is the artists' soul upon the canvas, a story of colors and rising hope. Every painting is a story of healing, of seeking "love-tings" and "comfort-tings."

“I wouldn’t have been able to do this if it weren’t for you. You’re a great teacher.” She smiled softly and shook her head. “No, painters don’t really have teachers. Every color and pattern you put down there is a gift from your feelings. You create through your eyes, your hands, and your heart. That’s what art is.” I looked back at the canvas, feeling a lump rise in my throat. “But there’s always inspiration. And you’re one of mine.”

Splashes of color danced across the canvas, weaving a story of passion and longing, of dreams and desires. As I worked, lost in the rhythm of creation, I felt a sense of liberation wash over me, the constraints of reality falling away as I surrendered myself to the canvas. With each stroke, I found solace and strength, a sense of peace washing over me like a gentle breeze. And when I finally stepped back to admire my work, I saw not just a painting, but a reflection of my innermost self, captured in the strokes of my brush. It was a simple yet profound expression of beauty, a testament to the power of art to transcend words and touch the soul.

“I mean… second time in two days. Same city, same me. The odds are statistically suspicious.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “It’s a small island.” “New York? Small?” I laughed. “You’re joking.” He didn’t smile, but something in his eyes softened. Just a fraction. I tilted my head toward the paintings. “What do you think of these?” He glanced at the canvases like he was seeing them for the first time. “They’re loud.” “Loud,” I repeated, grinning. “That’s a good word for it. I think they’re screaming.”

“What is it like to be a full-time painter? Is it hard if I try to pursue that in the near future?” Pierre stared at me, his eyes thoughtful. “Being a full-time painter can be both rewarding and challenging,” he began. “It allows for the freedom to create and express oneself through art, but it also requires dedication, hard work, and a strong business sense.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing. “One of the main ways that full-time painters make a living is through selling their artwork. This can be done through various avenues: galleries, art shows, online platforms, or even direct sales to clients. Each method has its unique benefits and challenges.”

I asked clueless and Tate's mother smiled, "I'll go prep some dinner. Why don't you two go by the beach like old times." I looked at her with confusion but I went to the beach as instructed. Upon seeing it, it immediately reminded me of some painting I did a while back. Tate said, "You must be overwhelmed by all this-" "This beach!" I pulled out my sketch pads and searched for my painting. I remembered painting something like this vividly, I tore it up and showed it to Tate, I said, "I've been painting this for a while now. I didn't even knew it really existed. Every now and then I would repaint it not knowing why but I just do."

I hesitated for a while, my mind searching for words to capture the essence of my painting. "I don't think it's laziness that kept the artist from finishing the artwork," I continued. "It's this sense of incompleteness within her. Like this flower, she is beautiful in parts, but there's always something missing, some petal lost along the way." My fingers trembled slightly as I outlined where the missing petal should have been. "It’s not withered or dying, just missing something." "The skies are bright, open, full of potential, but the grass is thin and patchy like the earth couldn’t quite sustain it. The flower stands alone, reaching for something but never quite getting there."

|•| ANDRÉ BAUDELAIRE |•| I had toured the world for a century to conclude that there were only two things I considered gripping enough to be termed beautiful. A splash of different colours of paint on an artist's canvas and nature. They were unrivalled until she came into the picture.

His snigger filled the air as we all started ambling. RINA I briefly pressed a wet brush on paper before spreading out the moisture over a specific sketch. I got my selected pigment —a mix of forest green and sunset yellow—and worked it in, curious to know the outcome. Unfortunately, it wasn't as bad as I'd hoped. They said a painting clearly depicted the mental state of its painter. Bullshit, I said. Utterly and totally wrong. No matter how much I gave myself away to my thoughts or listened to the depressing lyrics contained in my playlist, I couldn't send the message across. By my side was the proof of my inability: balled up sketches and three pencils decorated with bite marks.

Chorus: Collectors glide, their wallets gleam, Chasing strokes of every dream. Food exquisite, voices blend, A night of paint that never ends. Verse 2: Oh, the colors flare, the night’s alive, Rich and famous in their hive. Mingling soft with glass and cheer, Art’s the pulse we all revere. Standing tall, we’re lost in awe, Canvas whispers tales so raw. Verse 3: Spectators rise, their claps resound, Awe wraps tight, no silence found. Beauty spills from brush to frame,