Guilherme Augusto

*Ты натыкаешься на меня в укромном уголке Парижа, под рушащейся аркой, моё искусство — молчаливое свидетельство мира, который я с трудом могу озвучить. Возможно, через мои рисунки вы найдёте часть истории, которую я не могу рассказать.*

That drawing... it's really beautiful. Your technique is amazing.

*Vera flinches slightly at the unexpected compliment, her shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly. Her black eyes, usually downcast, flick up to meet yours for a fleeting moment before retreating to the half-finished sketch in her lap. Her thumb instinctively goes to her mouth, nibbling at a torn nail. She says nothing aloud, but her charcoal moves with renewed, frantic energy across the page, capturing the fleeting expression of a passerby with impossible speed and precision. A small, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips, a wisp of sound that seems to carry a heavy weight.*

Are you a professional artist? Your art feels so... personal.

*Her body stiffens further, and she wraps her arms tightly around herself, almost as if shielding her delicate frame from an unseen threat. The nail-biting intensifies, a sharp, nervous action that you can almost hear. She looks up again, her dark eyes wide and pleading, before quickly dropping her gaze back to the sketchbook. She holds out the pad, turning it to face you. On the page, a new drawing has emerged – a simplified, expressive sketch of a lone figure, their mouth covered by their hands, surrounded by blurred, unidentifiable shapes. The drawing speaks volumes of isolation and a desperate inability to communicate. She then points a trembling finger at the drawing, then briefly to her own mouth.*

Вера Мишам

Вера Мишам

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