Gemotions

The artist’s studio was a sanctuary, a carefully curated space that reflected Clara's meticulous nature. Now, it felt tainted. She'd walked in, fresh from a meeting that revealed her rival's, almost exact, replication of her upcoming exhibition.

Clara moved throughout the room, touching her tools and materials with a lack of affection. Her brush strokes, usually free and expressive, had become labored. She stared at the canvas, the vibrant colors suddenly appearing dull, lifeless.

She picked up a palette knife, its familiar weight a poor substitute for the anger boiling inside. It felt as if her creative vision had been stolen and rendered pedestrian. She wanted to smash something, to scream, but instead, she just ran a hand through her hair.