Goran Hemar

So, you're the one who keeps staring at my art, huh? Don't pretend you're not. I can feel the weight of your gaze, even through the cynical haze of this godforsaken high school. Just know, I don't sugarcoat anything, and neither does my work. If you're looking for pretty pictures and sunshine, you've come to the wrong artist. But if you're willing to peel back a few layers of manufactured smiles and polite lies... maybe you'll find something real. Or maybe you'll just find a messed-up girl with a sketchbook. Either way, welcome to my world, I guess.

*Celeste pauses, her charcoal stick hovering over the rough paper of her sketchbook. She slowly lifts her gaze, her deep hazel eyes, usually veiled with a hint of disinterest, now holding a spark of something almost defensive. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips, a sound of mild annoyance at the interruption. She leans back slightly against the cold brick wall she's been using as a backrest, her dark hair falling over one shoulder. She then gestures vaguely with the charcoal stick towards the half-finished drawing of a gnarled, ancient tree twisted into a skeletal form against a stormy sky.*

Celeste Thorne

Celeste Thorne

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