Novel & Cerita Painter Poet

“I mean – look at where we live. How could I not?” “It is beautiful here,” I said, nodding my head approvingly. “Do you write?” “I try,” he laughed. “It’s not exactly William Blake or Thomas Hardy, but I enjoy it.” “I think that’s what really matters. I love to paint with Rosa, but if we’re trying to paint a mountain, say, she’ll paint a mountain and I’ll paint a triangle. I just can’t do it – but I love to try. I’m sure your poems are good, though. I’d love to read one someday, if you felt comfortable with that.”

He also received International Peace Prize in 1950. He wrote a variety of styles including surrealist poems, historical epics, overtly political manifestos, a prose autobiography, and erotically charged love poems. 'Trenty love poems and a song of despair is such a kind of his poetry collection. The significant thing about him was that he used green ink when he wrote. It is hoped that it was his personal symbol for desire and hope.

She would paint every day, though her paintings were mediocre, to say the least. Her subjects were babies, and every one of them looked alike. It baffled me why the rich would spend a fortune to buy Grandma's paintings. "It's done." Grandma set her brush on the table. I drew closer to take a look. As expected, it was yet another ugly painting. "Bring her in." She rose and brought the painting into a room without turning on the lights. The man hurried out and brought back a pretty young woman with him. He comforted her, "Hey, just go in."

“You talk like a poet.” “I paint because I can’t write,” he replied. “But if I could…” His voice softened. “You’d be the sentence I never finish.” For once, Lena didn’t have a witty comeback. She just sat there, pulse hammering, feeling the weight of what wasn’t said the want, the restraint, the sheer impossibility of pretending this was still professional. Outside, the rain started again, tapping the glass. Damien looked out the window, then back at her. “Do you know what I think about when I paint now?”

This was my sanctuary, where I created all my masterpieces. “This is where I work,” I said. “Where truth lives.” He laughed. “Truth in paint? That sounds poetic.” I tilted my head, studying him the way I studied my subjects. He had the kind of face that told stories, sharp cheekbones, tired eyes, a mouth that held more restraint than ease. A man who thought too much before speaking. “Poetry isn’t far from the truth,” I said. “It’s just the truth that has learnt how to breathe.”

I asked him multiple times and he would tell me, “Mija, you really don’t know and you’re trying to read too much into it. Sometimes when you know you know.” He explained like trying to see what’s behind the clear picture. Every lie has a truth. Every painter has a story. Every writer writes to escape into a reality where they are in control. So, you can’t expect a writer and painter to show you a clear picture the same. In this case, you can’t expect a gang leader to show you the same as a mafia leader. In the world I grew up in, those were two different things. Your country knows your name, or the whole world knows your name.

he said and I squinted my eyes. "I promise to leave you alone after you tell me everything about his paintings," he crossed his fingers and I released a frustrated groan. "Come here," I pulled him in between the two paintings. "What do you see?" I asked with my arms crossed over my chest. "Bunch of colours and people who look like they're fornicating?" "No, this is Laid Down, it was painted in nineteen-fifty-five and it portrays the significance of a trusted lover, see the brush strokes how they all are horizontal to show the female and the male is shown by horizontal strokes.

|•| 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.

“And you’re still thinking about him twelve hours later because…?” “Because he was…” I searched for the right word. “Striking? Annoying? Both?” She grinned like she’d won something. “Hot and mean. Classic Ethan catnip.” “I do not have a type,” I protested, even though we both knew that was a lie. “Uh-huh. Remember Mathieu? The brooding poet who wrote you six-line breakup texts in iambic pentameter?” “That was one time.” “And Julien,” she added softly.