Rick Sanchez Art Novels & Stories

Spencer was also traumatized by what has happened to Spawn, that's why the whole mansion has no color. "That's why he sent Spawn away to study because of what he did to him?" River asked, full of wonder. "Yes Ms. River." Jane answered, trembling. "Is that so. Why did he used to hurt Spawn so often?" River asked again. It seemed that Jane could not answer River's continuous questioning and River noticed that immediately. So she held Jane's hand and smiled. "Don't worry Jane, you can trust me. These things we talked about won't make it out of here." River's persuasion. Jane smiled at her and reciprocated by holding her hand.

Every couplet offered blessings for Theodore and the Sanchez family. Madam Sanchez, coming from a humble background, didn't understand poetry, calligraphy, or rare collections. To her, these ubiquitous works of art were neither luxurious nor impressive, and many of them looked old and shabby. She smiled slyly and whispered, praising her son, "Son, did you collect these paintings from street vendors? You must have gotten quite a bit of kickback from them, right?" Guillermo had cut back on the budget allocated by the old master and pocketed some of the difference, but he wasn't happy.

It’s him. The man from the art exhibition—the one who’d bought the $100,000 painting. His piercing brown eyes meet mine, glinting with a hint of curiosity. His sharp, tailored suit fits him perfectly, exuding power and sophistication. Yet his aura, while commanding, doesn’t have the same intensity as the director’s or even Elijah’s. “Y-Yes,” I stammer, my voice shaky. His gaze drops to my hand, where blood is steadily dripping onto the floor. “You’re hurt.” His tone is unreadable as he reaches out slightly, as though to help.

It's not like there is any there, except an old gnarled tree. " Can you please stop calling my art, splashes of color. Show some respect." I say in my best icy voice. " But that's exactly what it is." He says. " Just You wait, I bet you'll stop thinking of it as splashes of color when it makes her a millionaire." Sanjil says. " Ohh puhleease." Rahman says with a roll of his eyes. " That I'll have to wait and see " " Don't sound so smug. The carnitas museum in Washington sold a little pair of abstract paintings for six hundred and forty five thousand dollars last week." Sanjil informed him primly.

This space feels alive, organic, with art covering every available surface. "Austin, this is incredible." I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. "What is this place?" "Sanctuary." He locks the door behind us. "A space for artists who can't afford gallery representation. Who don't fit into the traditional art world mold." I move closer to one of the pieces, a mixed-media sculpture made from what looks like recycled materials. It's raw, powerful, angry in a way that speaks to something deep in my chest.

The fear of being ordinary when you'd been extraordinary. "Can I tell you something?" I asked. "Sure." "My sister, Cara. The one who died. She wasn't just dealing with schizophrenia. She was special too. She could see things. Feel things. The boundary between reality and imagination was thin for her. Sometimes she'd describe things that hadn't happened yet. Or things happening far away. I thought it was just her illness. But now I wonder if maybe she had a gift. Like yours. Like mine." "What happened to her?"

Dio had not told on her. "Why do you care?" "I don't mess with things that are mine." He replied,bringing out a pencil. She watched as he sketched out trees at the bottom of the cloud he had formed. His white shirt was mildly stained with a blue paint, by the arm, but his focused remained on the art he was creating. Twenty minutes of watching Anthony was all Sandra needed to know that he knew his shit. Art was his thing. She watched as he pulled back, rising from his seat.

“YOU HAVE TO LET ME GO, YOU TRUNK OF A MAN!” A low, sinister chuckle leaves his lips at my lame insult, his wide shoulders shaking slowly at the motion. “My name is Santino Ricca.”

"I have a degree. Might as well use it." "Show me." I hesitated, then pulled out my phone. I opened the hidden gallery. Santiago scrolled through the images of my canvases. He was silent. Stone-faced. I felt like a hack. A fraud showing a Don his mediocre sketches. "I'm still finding the rhythm," I muttered. "It's nothing special." Santiago looked up. The expression in his eyes wasn't cold. It was genuine shock. "These are incredible. You have a real eye for the dark stuff." He slid the phone back. "Why haven't you done a gallery showing?"

Three days later Brittany's POV I held onto her hand as we continued to walk over to the next painting, our steps halted and my eyes moved forward as I gazed at it in pure admiration. "Do you like it?" She asked softly as I rested my head against her shoulder, finding her presence comforting. "I love it" I replied truthfully "It was painted by Oscar Sanchez, his idea was to capture the beauty in death" she explained confidently and I smiled my eyes never leaving the painting as I admired her mind, she had spent the entire night explaining each painting I had requested her to or looked at for too long.