Hello you. Here is a new timed prompt. I haven’t done one in a while. I put two minutes on the clock for this one. Enjoy!
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Prompt: Creative man.
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He is masterful. There is no other word. Perfection perhaps, but Mother taught me to beware of perfection. No, there is nothing sinister or mischievous about him. There is no pit beneath his tender resignation to the canvas. But it is more than his canvas. He splatters paint left and right, on the walls, the floor. Yellow and blues drip from the window shades, and then even the sun paints with him. I do not think any real person could remain in the room with him when he works.
His creation is all observing. He thinks not but the angle of his stroke before a conversation is through. He wears his art on him. It is his skin. On his cuffs, on his pant pockets, in his hair. No drip or drop would exist were it not for his expert strokes and craft. The man of art has become his art.
The subject of his portraits, if you could call them that, were universally brilliant. He could capture the latent pride in a hound’s eyes, or the springing spirit of a spaniel long lost. But he, he rises from the grave, the comfort and character of lost souls.
