With the hands bound behind the back of the subject, they asked us to paint the agony that we felt for the victim as he lay there. Strange you never knew how the effects of the bound would pull at your emotional strings; both hate and aroused by the bounds so tight that they puff the hands it binds and turn the wrists to a dark shade of red, almost purple with spots of brown. He turned to look out the window as he saw an airplane turn left, look right. The raise of his head to look out the window angers you because you would think there would be more pain in his eyes. All you see is the bored sadness of this event that took place just before you entered into the classroom. Does he understand that his naked ambitions are the very form of your art?!? No, he just wants to be paid, and all is well because you just want to paint. The stark contrast of light and dark between his sharp jaw line and his stark cheeks covered in a soot that the director had placed well on his face make him appear dirtier than he had been just twenty minutes ago. You would never think this could not be real if you painted it the right way. The table beside his twisted lying body on the floor gave shade in places that you could just coal over rather than paint. After painting for a while you run just as fast as you can because you start to feel ill. Fearing the pills you took made you sick you throw up all over the spot on the floor under the table no one would think to look to for the source of the putrid smell.

You run to your car. You unlock it and sit down in the car. You look all around the parking lot to make sure no one sees you pick up your shiny gun, careful to not get your fingerprints on the murder weapon. Brain washed with the cheapest wine, you struggle to hold back the tears of a suffocated love. Your life is exhausted by the mundane, simplistic life no longer an option. You have opted for a eccentric artist life. You struggle constantly to not be labeled insane, struggle so hard. Put it away, you remind yourself. You have to exit the car to get the flashback from way back out of your mind. You have told yourself to get rid of the gun for so long, but you cannot. You place it back safely in its hiding spot.

You head to your dorm room to the weeping willow where you can finish the wine in your backpack. You don’t know what is like to fight evil with evil. Your life has never been much of an event, but with a lack of self esteem, you know that the evil leers around the corner. You fade into yourself to later wake under the weeping willow. You still will never know what it is like to describe the way the blue of the sky peaks between the tree leaves as they slowly sway to the sound of a rhythm you cannot hear. You don’t want to even try.

• Note: all the writings were inspirited by music I listened to while allowing it to flow through my hands.

Art"ist (#), n. [F. artiste, LL. artista, fr. L. ars. See Art, n., and cf. Artiste.]

1.

One who practices some mechanic art or craft; an artisan.

[Obs.]

How to build ships, and dreadful ordnance cast, Instruct the articles and reward their. Waller.

2.

One who professes and practices an art in which science and taste preside over the manual execution.

⇒ The term is particularly applied to painters, sculptors, musicians, engravers, and architects.

Elmes.

3.

One who shows trained skill or rare taste in any manual art or occupation.

Pope.

4.

An artful person; a schemer.

[Obs.]

Syn. -- Artisan. See Artisan.

 

© Webster 1913.

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