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by Lucy Campbell A lot of the art that inspires me is mainly based around the uprising of women and women’s bodies shown in a way that isn’t necessarily a “classic” view of beauty. I feel that the choice of style comes from the desire to make certain features “ugly” or distorted while keeping it aesthetic and still considered beautiful. The pieces shown are all done with ink and marker, often showing expression through realism illustrations and aspects of cartooning. About the Artist Lucy Campbell, A brilliant artist of all the mediums ever. Creator of a series of internet marketing advice videos, she has often been known for her mental representations, abstract objects and abilities that make up the fundamental building blocks of thoughts and wise beliefs. This is some of the innumerable award winning work, which wields big words used in the wrong context to try and seem impressive, that has changed many lives, for the better.
by Grace Kelly Looking up from the ground, it looks like a decoration. Its size leads you to think of large tapestries used to cover the grandest window. It flows like a sail, hinting on the infinite paths one can take with it. Its purpose can be experienced through a single touch. You can feel how this fabric is different. You can sense its purpose of a stage, used to frame the acrobatic movement. It draws in your gaze, like water swirling down a drain. Its movement is mesmerizing. It’s capable of an unimaginable amount of forms, shifting from soft and flowy to rigid and taut. Stretchy then stiff within a sudden movement, steadily shifting through its many forms. It creates a physical representation of abstract ideas, blending together in an indescribable way, only able to be understood through sight and touch. As I climb higher my body melts away. Subconscious thoughts are all that guides me, moving in and out of the fabric. Flowing through movements, exploring without the construct and limits of what is right or possible. I can sense the gaze of many, filled with excitement and confusion, but I do not pay attention. If my thoughts stray I cease to float. My arms become rough stones, each movement uneven and uncertain. My torso stiffens like cement as all motion once posible disappears, leaving me trapped in place as the eyes of the many become ravenous vultures, picking off what is left of me. I must ignore the uncomfortable and break off the hardened stone. I adventure higher into the air, twisting and flowing like a stream unaffected by gravity, intertwining myself in the fabric. Wrapping myself up in intricate movements feels instinctive. No matter how much I am challenged, these movements fulfill something deep inside my body. Something that was once empty and covered in dust, forgotten and denied, but is now filled with something better. by Maia Wheeler Lives Lived Everyone's lives start and end at a certain point in time and history. Everyone lives a life, some lives more similar to each other and others extremely different. Some people follow the crowd and others do their own thing. I am always intrigued by the ones who don’t follow the pack. The curious ones, the adventure-seekers. The people who follow their passions and create who they are from defining experiences. Certain people, you can tell they are unique. It radiates off of them. It is held in their smile, the way they express themselves, in the passions they pursue and the ways they pursue those passions. Their heart and soul pours into their moments of inspiration and passion. These are the ones that I want to be more like. The ones I want to love and laugh with. These are the souls who create a beautiful world to live in. Blossoms in the Eyes She sits in the cafe sipping her almond milk latte. Computer open, ideas wondering. I admire from a distance. Not a far distance, but a distance apart from her. Feeling like I had met her before. Her eyes covered by the light wisps of her hair falling out of her two twisted ponytails. Lips pressed against the cup leaving a lipstick stain: “City Chic” is the name of the color. She reminds me of the city. The beautiful people, the rushing ideas and artistic expression exploding with envy. I stare in curiosity of who she is. Face slowly turns, eyes meeting mine. I know those eyes. A sparkle like the stars on a clear night. Her mouth opens just enough to let out a word. A word of silence. Blossom she mouths. She picks up her things and walks out of the small cafe. All was left was her name in the silent air. Never knowing why she seems so familiar, but a word that will never be left, but admired in my mind. Blossom is her name, and she is the woman I know without knowing why. Never Again At ease, she took a step back from the half-naked painted women. Her mouth slightly opened as the tip of the paintbrush entered her mouth and was bitten on. She could still feel the fingers, the light strokes of her brush against the canvas. Long, light strokes when content, harsh, short strokes when anger took over the mind. It stood in the center of the room still, once the last stroke of the brush was pressed against the once blank canvas, all was still. It was never moved, never looked at, never at emotion again.
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