ℙ𝕖𝕣𝕔𝕪'𝕤 𝕡𝕦𝕣𝕡𝕝𝕖 𝕡𝕒𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕖✧

وایسا من الان دیدم استار رو این

فور کن فولدر بزنم

اینجا جوین باش

‌:¨ ·.· ¨: `· .  ᥬᩤفولدر آرتیست ها

این پیام رو فوروارد کنید چنلتون تا برای آرتیست ها فولدر درست کنم

حتما جویین باشین ՞߹ - ߹՞

𝚒 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝

𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚋𝚝𝚠 🥹🙏

𝙸𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃 𝚂𝙰𝚆 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙷𝙿𝙻𝚈 𝚂𝙷𝙸𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙺𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚄

They praised his realism. His texture. His ability to make grief look almost tangible. But now someone had found the original records. And the records contained names. Dates. Addresses. And photographs. All belonging to people who had disappeared. The next morning, the gallery opened as usual. Visitors walked through the exhibition. They admired the paintings. They whispered about the strange realism. Nobody noticed the artist standing silently at the end of the final room. Nobody noticed that one painting had been replaced overnight. A new one. Still wet. No title. No date. Just a portrait of a woman standing inside the gallery. She was looking directly at the viewer. And beneath the painting, written in fresh brown paint, were four words: “She saw the collection.”

https://t.me/Percysrottinghell He had spent most of his life painting things nobody else wanted to look at. Not landscapes. Not portraits. Not anything beautiful enough to hang above a fireplace. His paintings were always dark, unsettling pieces that made people stare for a little too long before looking away. He had a strange obsession with human memory. Not the memories themselves— but what remained of them after everything else was taken away. As a child, he used to paint with whatever he could find. His mother’s old makeup. Dirt from the garden. Coffee grounds. Rust scraped from the fence outside their house. His father hated it. He always told him: “Paint something normal.” But normal things never interested him. Years later, he became a respected artist. Quiet, private, almost painfully meticulous. He rarely explained his work. When interviewers asked what a painting meant, he would simply smile and say: “You'll see.” Then came his biggest exhibition yet. The gallery was enormous. White walls. Polished floors. Soft lighting. Hundreds of people came on opening night. Every painting had a small silver plaque beside it with nothing more than a title and a date. The first room was filled with portraits. People who looked terrified. People who looked exhausted. People who looked like they were remembering something they desperately wanted to forget. The second room was darker. The paintings became less recognizable. Shapes. Hands. Faces half-hidden beneath layers of brown and black. And throughout the entire exhibition, there was one color that appeared again and again. Brown. Dark brown. Reddish brown. Almost black in some paintings. Visitors assumed it was oil paint. Some thought it was coffee. Others believed it was simply his signature color. Until one woman stopped in front of the largest painting in the gallery. It was called: “What Remains.” The painting showed an empty bedroom. A child's bed. A small wooden chair. And a dark brown stain spreading across the floor. She stared at it for several seconds. Then noticed something. The texture wasn't right. It didn't look like paint. She leaned closer. The gallery attendant immediately stepped toward her. “Please don't touch the artwork.” She pulled her hand back. “Is that... paint?” The attendant hesitated. “That's what we're told.” Across the room, the artist was watching them. He didn't look nervous. He looked almost amused. Later that night, after the gallery closed, he walked through the exhibition alone. He stopped in front of each painting. Not admiring them. Checking them. Making sure they were still there. When he reached the final room, he unlocked a small door hidden behind one of the walls. Inside was a private storage room. There were no paintings inside. Only shelves. Dozens of glass containers sat neatly arranged across them. Each one had a date written on a label. Some were years old. Some were only days old. And inside each container was a different shade of brown. He picked up one of the newest jars. The label read: “Room 7 — 03:14 AM.” He smiled. Then placed it beside the others. His phone suddenly rang. It was the gallery owner. The man sounded nervous. “We need to talk about the paintings.” The artist frowned. “What about them?” A long silence. Then: “Someone found one of the old records.” The artist's expression changed. “Which one?” The owner swallowed. “The original list.” He went completely still. Because the exhibition wasn't really about art. It had never been about art. Every painting was a reconstruction. Every room represented a place. Every date corresponded to an incident. And that strange brown color... wasn't paint. It was what he had collected from every place he had left behind. For years, nobody had questioned it. Because people loved the paintings.

𝚆𝙴'𝚅𝙴 𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝙿𝙴𝙶𝙶𝙴𝙳

𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚒 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚝

#doodle #Walden

𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚖𝚘𝚗... 𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚍.