The Collector, through no shortage of hearsay, means and compulsion, met one M. Muñoz underneath the Old Bridge. Birthplace unknown, age unknown, first name unknown, dubious wedding band on ring finger, Muñoz bled into his work—cut open his body and… Continue Reading
The artist put a wet brush to the canvas, tracing myriad graceful lines that would coalesce, she hoped, into an abominable enough shape. Not in her eyes, perhaps, but her work had a certain reputation among her enthusiasts of late… Continue Reading
I sit in front of the blank canvas. There’s only a bright sun in its top right corner. My brush sits full of lemon yellow paint, but a dark tempest dominates my mind. I get gooseflesh as I replay Chuck’s… Continue Reading
That Winter, to me, will always be Clare in a bright red cape, puffing on a snowy street. Moving in in January, I dropped a box of my parents’ old crockery down the stairs, and never replaced it. It was… Continue Reading
He loves bright, cold nights like this. I press my form tight against the shadows as a cloud of rank breath steams into the darkness. The watch-wyverns pause at the alley’s entrance and my heart drops, though I know they… Continue Reading
So, I was talking with several of my artworld clients and acquaintances when one of them, Moll E, a concept artiste and massage therapist, mentioned a frame she had in mind for a painting. The frame would be a life-size… Continue Reading
It started out with a scribble. As she dragged a blue crayon across a crumpled sheet of white paper. The messy scrawl was an abstract piece. But like all art, it was a mark from the artist — I am… Continue Reading
I found a sort of skull in the garden. You did? Let me see. I didn’t bring it inside. It’s a skull. Well, what kind of animal is it from? I don’t know. Do I look like a zoologist? All… Continue Reading
He painted her a picture. He showed it to her one Tuesday, after she got off work. He had been working on it for a while and finally decided it was finished. He knew he was done with the painting,… Continue Reading
Jonathan Crackers dances down our street in an old, patched jacket, singing a song that only he understands, talking to people who aren’t quite there. He’s dressed in purple from head to toe. “An eggplant,” says Jamie who lives down… Continue Reading