Tag "Artists" - Works and Original stories

... The fire of passion sparkles in his eyes, and in this fire he finds not only satisfaction, but also liberation. Sometimes doubts arise during the creation process, and he wonders: "Does someone understand me?" But as soon as the brush touches the surface, all doubts disappear — only the true self of the artist remains, manifested in every movement...

"Some guy just told me I have nice knees and he wants to draw them," Seungmin blurts out before Gunil can ask what's wrong with his face, or crack a joke that boys are finally paying attention to poor Minnie. "What the heck? Is he sick? A fetishist? What if he starts stalking me? Gunil-hyung, help, I'm scared!"

Perhaps there is much more behind the scenes of numerous cameras than we can know... Maybe some of the songs have a much deeper meaning than we know.

An artist obsessed with horror and monsters has a dream - to paint a portrait of a real monster. When the world unexpectedly is engulfed in darkness, the inhuman creatures began to roam around, she might get the chance to make her dream come true. But she ended up getting much more than she had bargained for.

June 13,1985 Susie sits on the grass and looks at the blue sky and waits.She took pencils and paper with her to draw with her friend Elizabeth.But Eli,strangely for her,is late. Susie is already starting to worry when she hears. -Susie!-Elizabeth said uncertainly. -Oh, Eli, you’ve finally come, I’m already starting to worry about you,-Susie said softly. -This is for you!-Eli said,holding out a box with something inside to Susie. -What’s there?-asked Susie. -These are strawberry cookies!

Jun never liked public holidays, but Minghao always liked to draw.

Welt couldn't help but capture on paper the beauty and grace of Himeko as she slowly sipped her strong brewed coffee.

“You know that I do not mind drawing your portrait,” he said.

There's a blank canvas in front of her. Nearby are paints, brushes. She sits looking at the absence of her work. There is another brush in her hand. It hangs in the air, not touching the linen. Thoughts rush through her mind, she wishes she could strangle them. Strangle herself. Why can't she just stop thinking? A certain figure appears nearby, whispering. "You have to get better." "Not good enough." The girl kicks her foot on the stool where the paints and brushes are. It hurts. She hits

In a small town where time dragged slowly, like heavy honey, there lived a young artist named Edward. His soul was a kaleidoscope of emotions, and his brushes were magic feathers that painted gray reality in bright colors. But there was an indefinable gloom in his eyes, like a shadow shut off from the world.

In the deep silence of a winter evening, when nature is shrouded in a silver blanket of snow, the evening melody froze on the lake. The icy fingers of the cold carefully forged patterns on the surface of the water, like clumsy notes in which time stood still.