three photographs.

“There is nothing wrong in deriving your work from someone else’s life.”

He told her, and paused.

The fresh rays were entering the room draped with dark velvet cloth that blended in with the furniture, but not for long. Each deflection exposed a corner, and the lines on his forehead.

To call out someone isn’t forgiving, but to honestly critique someone is even worse.

His dark, wavy hair took the spotlight while his surroundings were busy absorbing the nature’s glimmer.

He looked away from her, his eyes half closed focused on the wooden floor. The crouched back gave his tie some freedom to breathe over his immaculate blue shirt. She could sense the room getting brighter, but her eyes weren’t ready for it, yet. What could she possibly do more to express herself in her art, even if her creation was an extension of someone else’s life?

He looked towards the window and let out the smoke he’d been holding back. It threw the light of its path and distracted the peace of the velvet drapes.

“You’re starting out.”

He pointed his cigarette at her. There was an amiable smile between his thick mustache and beard.

“Your friend who you are borrowing from is good with colors, but if you want to master the lines, study Picasso.”

She was still looking at him when her lips opened up a little bit, to pour out a critique of their own, but she ended up looking away.

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