Gemotions

The phone vibrated on the table, a persistent buzz. It was another message, another link to the image. Another confirmation that his linework, his obsessive detail, his carefully considered composition, was now… on someone's calf. He didn't even bother to pick up the phone. His studio was a disaster, paints scattered, canvases leaned haphazardly against the walls. A half-finished sculpture sat in the corner, a testament to months of fruitless labor.

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of paint. He’d poured his soul into his art, only to have it repurposed, recontextualized, in a way that felt… hollow. He took a deep breath, the air thick with the smell of turpentine and regret. He knew the feeling. He turned off the phone and stared at the empty canvas in front of him. Maybe tomorrow he would start a new painting.