Painter Poet Mga Nobela at Kwento

“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."

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.”

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.

“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.

The fact that every painting there had a story and a storyteller behind them brought all those non-living paintings to life. I came across a painting with a quote — ‘The skies of my world are the color of your lips and the moon has the color of your eyes. Yet all it needs is a glimpse of your smile and everything else fades away.’ My heart fluttered at those words. “Aren’t these artists too romantic?” I said. “Well… every painting is born from pain. Pain of love, pain of death, pain deep-seated in the heart, flowing like crimson paint on canvas. Maybe that is why we call them pain—tings. They are painful things that hum the melody of pain.”

the bartender waved, “good to see you! The usual?” “You betcha, Barry,” Laura said. Barry was the 31-year old owner of Painter’s Cove. He was an artist and guitar player, too, but since it was hard to make a living as either one, he did the next best thing. He opened a place where artists and musicians could come hangout, leave their mark on his walls and talk about their craft amongst friends. It was a home away from home for the people who went there, and for Barry, it was his actual home. He lived by himself in the loft above the lounge.

|•| 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.

Alyssa's eyes glazed over at what she read. "Oh my gosh! Is what I'm reading true?" She still couldn't believe what she read. Mr. Gregorio Santillan is a well-known great painter. Almost all of Gregorio's paintings are exhibited in art galleries, it wins an award every year. But year 2016 the artist quit because of his family’s tragedy. Alyssa suddenly felt sadness for the painter. "It's good that Mr. Gregorio looks fine," Alyssa said to herself. She was referring to the painter.