Gemotions

The artist’s studio, normally a source of calm, felt like a pressure cooker. The scent of turpentine, usually a familiar comfort, now felt cloying. Michael stared at the canvas, his unfinished masterpiece. His mentor, Madame Dubois, the woman who had guided him through his creative process, had departed. A note, a small sketch of a bird in flight, was all. He felt a surge of frustration, his heart hammered against his ribs.

He snatched up a brush, dipped it in crimson paint, and attacked the canvas with a ferocity he hadn't known he possessed. He smeared and splattered, the colors a chaotic reflection of his internal storm. The brush became an extension of his own self, he needed to leave a mark.