Gemotions

The gallery owner, Mr. Harding, was practically vibrating. His usually precise suit felt suddenly too tight, the starched collar a minor annoyance. He had just seen the photograph – a woman with his swirling, abstract design permanently etched across her shoulder blade. He felt a surge of energy course through him, a feeling like static electricity beneath his skin. "Magnificent," he breathed, the word a rush of air. He already envisioned a new series, bolder, more ambitious.

He practically leaped across the studio, sketching furiously, his charcoal smudging onto his cheek. Colors he hadn't considered before demanded to be used, hues he'd previously dismissed now screamed for attention. The world felt brighter, sharper. He wanted to shout, to sing.