Gemotions

The artist's studio, a sanctuary of controlled chaos, had been invaded. Now, a large piece, a charcoal sketch, was hanging in the lobby of a high-end hotel. He hadn't consented. His mind reeled. He should have locked the door.

He felt a sudden, profound discomfort that made his skin crawl. The very idea that his most personal thoughts, transcribed onto paper in the privacy of his home, were now on display was abhorrent. He felt violated, exposed, his very soul laid bare.

He felt the sudden impulse to flee, to erase the piece from existence. He wanted to scream at anyone who looked at it, "It's not finished! You don't understand!" Instead, he hunched his shoulders and melted into the crowd.