Gemotions

The gallery was a sterile white box, but the paintings… the paintings were anything but. Sarah recognized her own furious brushstrokes, the raw emotion she’d poured onto the canvas, now hung, framed, for the public to dissect. A tremor ran through her, a prickling heat that started in her chest and spread down her arms, making her skin tingle. She bit her lip, a nervous habit she'd thought she'd broken years ago, and ran a hand through her hair, tangling her fingers. A man in a tailored suit approached, murmuring compliments about the “bold use of color.” She just swallowed hard, feeling suddenly lightheaded. He gestured towards a particularly intense piece, the one depicting her father's funeral, and said, "It's… quite moving."