Art's Conduct by PurpleIris985372 (Now, Sefaner)
- Iɴsᴘɪʀᴇᴅ ʙʏ Dᴀɴ Bʀᴏᴡɴ's Tʜᴇ Dᴀ Vɪɴᴄɪ Cᴏᴅᴇ -
Life is like art.
Set a brush on the canvas, and it formed a mark. It didn't form anything else, but that mark.
And then - add a little dash to the side.
Now, a T is present.
Nothing more. Nothing less. Just a simple T with a handy stroke articulated into it.
The formation of the painting required more than just a simplistic dash on the outer creases of the paper. Subliminal brush strokes and infinite passion were required, and without either, it wouldn't be a painting and even the simple due of evening out the colors wouldn't suffice any value. Both components were essential to the outer appearance . Without the other, it would put the Lewis out of Lewis and Clark, or vice versa.
Those were the rules of the game, and like that, a masterpiece was born, but as I said, "Life is like art." because art was nothing in comparison to human behavior.
Sure, we could express it through blots of saturation and contrasts from acrylics, furnished water from hardened dyes, as well as, statuesque marionettes and their puppeteers, but could we truly grasp emotions of living entity through our artwork?
"Parles vous Francais, my arse,"
That's Dian Hickerton to you…
Tall. Skinny. Wavy brown hair with chocolate brown pupils to match - and a tad of little French beauty in the mix.
Born in America, in the bustling streets of the Big Apple (minus the accent), little Dian Hickerton had always clasped onto the childhood dream of becoming a famous artist like the likes of Renaissance giant, Leonardo da Vinci and mainstream artist, Viash Natalli, but with a father disapproving her decisions, her dream was nothing, but a haphazard future, and yet despite all that, a retrospective obsession brew within her.
Her life was never the same to begin with, and with this newfound catalysm, would her life finally right itself, or would it ensue its road down to failure?