Rick Sanchez Art Novels & Stories

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.

I adjusted my suit, walking into the room which was occupied by the rich sons of influential personalities in London. "Look who's here? The soon-to-be father in our midst," Scar Finch, one of those annoying scumbags, said. "It's been a long while, man," Thomas said as I sat. My eyes drifted to the man at the end—definitely the one I had met at the party with Sabrina. "And you must be?" I said to him. "Oh, I'm Antonio Sanchez, Director of You and I Company, director of the city's museum, and son to Mateo Sanchez, Spain's most influential figure," he looked at me with utmost disgust.

The guy went inside the staff room to change clothes, leaving Sane alone with a few customers roaming around, searching for the things that they wanted. Sane’s attention was just fixed on the newspaper that he was holding in his hand. He let go of his bag on the counter before sitting on the nearest sofa, eyes still hadn’t left the newspaper. He wanted to know what the article was all about, and what the writer was referring to about Seleen being alive. He hoped that what he was thinking wasn’t the case. The author’s name was Patrick Soriano. That name didn’t ring in his mind so it made him even more curious.

I held up a large, abstract canvas depicting what looked like a stormy sea rendered in varying shades of anxiety. Sandra hopped down, plucked the canvas from my hands, and spun it around. "Ah, lean it against the wall facing away from the door. Problem solved. See? Curating." She winked, her grin positively predatory. "Besides, isn't it the artist he's supposedly interested in seeing? Not just her neatly categorized cadmiums?" Heat flooded my cheeks. "He's interested in the work, Sandra. The process. The archaeology, remember?" I busied myself stacking sketchbooks into a marginally straighter pile on my battered worktable.

They sat me in the middle and took turns feeding me bites from their plates, making me laugh when Kai pretended to steal a strawberry from my lips. “So tell us,” Tate said, leaning back in his chair, “what kind of art do you want to make while you’re here? We cleared out the entire west wing for your studio. Skylights, the best supplies money can buy, whatever you need.” I took a sip of coffee and thought for a moment. “I’ve always wanted to paint something big and bold. Something that feels alive. Maybe abstracts inspired by the ocean… or by how I feel when I’m with all of you.”

Some of them were in dire need, but regardless of that, the need shouldn’t lead them to whatever they were dealing with. “I understand that you are here seeking for sponsors, but I do not sponsor a project that I do not see benefitting or appealing. Though some of you have passed through my right hand’s review. Mine was the one that determined it, and I have chosen to not sponsor any of the projects.” Arturo said, looking at Anika. “First, I do not work with lawyers or cops. My apologies, but I have my own terms in this, and after investigating, some of you did indeed turn out being them. The issue is right now, you have a nice little question mark over your heads, and I believe that you kno

Her knees felt oddly weak for half a second. They stepped inside. Dr. Antonio Sanchez stood at a small sink in the corner, washing his hands with calm, deliberate movements. When he turned, Mira’s breath caught before she could stop it. He was unfairly attractive. Broad shoulders filled out a crisp white button-up that looked like it was fighting a losing battle against the muscular chest beneath it. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing a full sleeve of dark tattoos on his left arm. His hair was long enough to brush his shoulders, dark and loosely curly. His face was sharp and almost ethereal—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a mouth that looked like it knew too many secrets.