The best relationship art depicts the highs and lows of the authentic couple.
You know, I’ve never walked my dog without thinking about how similar it is to raising a kid. I don’t think you should ever really walk your dog, but you also can't let your dog walk you. Dogs are never wrong, that’s the thing. They’re all instinct, baby. Sometimes you gotta let ‘em chase a scent, but then sometimes you gotta hold ‘em back, you know? Those sons of bitches—haha.
Just Do It!
The Tropico Café was a popular one among the people of Denver. From the outside it didn’t look like much. It sat in the middle of a long strip of old shops, ranging from pottery to global foods. Inside the café, a waitress who worked almost every day sat behind the counter flipping through a Vogue magazine. She looked up as the shop bell rang and a frequent customer strolled past the banana trees on either side of the door and stepped into the welcoming atmosphere of the café. He headed to the counter and smiled at her.
#74 Pen and paper kiss eloquently in the fading light. Red and gold leap between the clouds, flirting with stone and concrete and rippling water as the earth diligently spins on its axis, heedless to the pair of eyes straining to soak in every beam and detail of light. A careless precision, at once angry and eager and desperate, possesses the muscles and sinews of the prematurely worn fingers of the man who stands on the old bridge, shivering in the autumn breeze. Etchings and lines become form, conversing in inked dialogue, a silent summons to notice the glorious tragedy of the instance the fleeting sun slips away into slumber.
My Teacher, Monet
“A dolphin swimming in a vast ocean— no, a pink dolphin swimming in a vast ocea—a pink three eyed dolphin swimming in a vast ocean? Agh! Why is it so difficult to come up with something meaningful to paint?” Julissa barked at herself with a pink colored pencil in one hand and the other clenched in a fist.
A Paint Stroke of Luck
It was a life or death situation. Fay had to have it. This is why she went to these auctions. Her love of art lured her to the excitement of what new piece could be hers, even though she should’ve been saving up for the art studio that she so desperately craved.
The Black Book
“Do I hear twenty-five thousand… twenty-five thousand? Offering the diary of Sien Hoornik, girlfriend of Vincent Van Gogh. Last bid is twenty-thousand… twenty-thousand. Fair warning. Going once… going twice…” The knock of the gavel: “Sold! On the phone… twenty thousand!” It was late in the afternoon, and my prized possession was sold.
A Carved Box
Despite the overcast skies and the threat of rain, the estate sale that day is large, covering at least an acre with farm equipment, wooden furniture, and everything in between with a large turnout. Among them, Caroline, who owns two thrift stores, isn’t interested in the farm equipment and other big things instead, she watches for the boxes of miscellaneous stuff – these are where the hidden treasures are found – in her opinion, with over 12-years-experience guiding her choices. Occasionally, she’ll buy a trunk or small desk for the possible treasures within.
Behind Vincent van Gogh's Starry Night
You must have seen this painting before. Vincent van Gogh, Starry Night, 1889. You can at least hazard a guess to its observant title. This is Vincent van Gogh's Starry Night.
Paul Klee and the Ant
Colonist MyrmidaAleph201 has embarked on her third excursion of the morning. She leaves the nest in the flowerbox and wanders up the warm bricks of the house. The trail is strongest here; the pheromones as bright as a boulevard set ablaze. Her fellow incoming Colonists stop to stroke her antenna briefly as she passes. She can taste their enthusiasm.
Black as Charcoal
Jake looked at its watch. 10:52, “Bloody Hell!” he had missed his bus by 3 minutes. The N68 was only going by on the half hour, he would need to take the 189 to Marble Arch station and then transfer onto route 36 “22 minutes to KCH”. He would be at best 15 minutes late for its appointment. That is, if the next bus was on time.
Lost in Color
Lost in Color I sit outside a café, drinking coffee and eating bits of a croissant as my fingers peel apart its layers this early Parisian morning. The light is soft and allows me to enjoy the movements of color along the street before the harshness of the midday sun makes squinting a requirement. It is still early. Traffic is subdued, and area residents are just starting their morning trek to work.
The Grand Scheme of Things
On the last day in Venice it rained. The city on the water was still beautiful, still had an elegance to her, just as an aging Hollywood star possesses a glimmer of youthful allure. Puddling through the narrow alleyways, I heard only the sound of sloshing footsteps and umbrellas scraping against the brick walls as I passed alongside strangers, lifting my umbrella up or down to accommodate the oncoming tourist.