They say some artists give their souls to their work when they die and these trapped pieces of humanity are what give these works the ability to captivate an audience. In most galleries you could walk past a thousand paintings and never find one that makes you stop and stare but some specialise in the works of the deceased and use their soul-bound work to make their money.
One gallery in particular, not overly well known but consistently visited throughout the year, doesn't just prefer the works of the dead - they offer a brush to anyone on death's row and wait for the inevitable. It's quite clever, taking advantage of the oncoming death to make themselves a free piece of art that they could sell for millions to the right eyes.
There's something about a painting made in the room where the artist died that gives it a whole new depth. Literally in some cases, as the painter's soul relives their final moments, gradually warping the canvas from one scene to another and back again. This shifting of realities gave way to several stories of people trapped in paintings, moving about from day to day as if they were alive. Few realise that they once were, or even still believe they are.
I remember a painting my uncle finished the day before he died in his studio. Heart attack in the early morning while everyone else was asleep - we never heard a peep from him and didn't find his body until late afternoon, having believed he'd been working all the while.
He was hunched over on his side, right next to a painting of his cousin's fishing boat sailing past a tropical waterfall. We didn't notice it changing for several days, too busy with grief to see him waving at us from the boat or notice that there was water leaking over the frame and the scent of the sea perfumed the entire house, so strongly did he want to be alive again.
Of all the memories of my uncle, the one I'll never forget is when he came to visit me the night after I took that painting to my home. He was sat at the end of my bed, drenched in water and smiling down at me. I felt the ocean waves behind him gently spray my face as he slowly got up and climbed back into the frame. He's there right now, cheerful as ever and sailing right towards me.
One gallery in particular, not overly well known but consistently visited throughout the year, doesn't just prefer the works of the dead - they offer a brush to anyone on death's row and wait for the inevitable. It's quite clever, taking advantage of the oncoming death to make themselves a free piece of art that they could sell for millions to the right eyes.
There's something about a painting made in the room where the artist died that gives it a whole new depth. Literally in some cases, as the painter's soul relives their final moments, gradually warping the canvas from one scene to another and back again. This shifting of realities gave way to several stories of people trapped in paintings, moving about from day to day as if they were alive. Few realise that they once were, or even still believe they are.
I remember a painting my uncle finished the day before he died in his studio. Heart attack in the early morning while everyone else was asleep - we never heard a peep from him and didn't find his body until late afternoon, having believed he'd been working all the while.
He was hunched over on his side, right next to a painting of his cousin's fishing boat sailing past a tropical waterfall. We didn't notice it changing for several days, too busy with grief to see him waving at us from the boat or notice that there was water leaking over the frame and the scent of the sea perfumed the entire house, so strongly did he want to be alive again.
Of all the memories of my uncle, the one I'll never forget is when he came to visit me the night after I took that painting to my home. He was sat at the end of my bed, drenched in water and smiling down at me. I felt the ocean waves behind him gently spray my face as he slowly got up and climbed back into the frame. He's there right now, cheerful as ever and sailing right towards me.
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