Cristian Mihai (born 25 December 1990) grew up in Constanta, Romania. And he’s still growing up, or at least trying to. Sometimes he writes. Sometimes he gets lucky and writes something good. His favorite painting is “Wanderer above the Sea of Fog” by Caspar David Friedrich. He can’t, however, draw a straight line. No matter how much he tries. Not even with a ruler. And, please, don’t ever ask him to sing.
“if it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it.”
― Charles Bukowski
Passion. Defined as a strong and barely controllable emotion. Fire. Defined as a destructive burning of something. Sounds pretty bad now, doesn’t it? But, if you think about it for a while, creation is a destructive process. Or is it the other way around?
But I do wonder, did you find your passion? Are you sure? Is it the thing that controls you? Make you want to jump out of the bed in the morning? The thing you can’t live without?
The artist. A solitary genius. A creator of beauty so sacred that we can’t help but love and fear at the same time.
“He’s a true artist,” we find ourselves saying, and it’s these words put together that conjure up the vision of someone whose inexorable destiny was to create, even at the expense of having to endure a lifetime of humility and frustration and social alienation.
The true artist is often misunderstood. He’s utterly and inconsolably alone with his art. And it is that art, that we all revere, that we’d think of as a bridge, that art is actually a wall. The artist hides behind this wall, refusing to face reality.
But times are changing. The artist has little choice in the matter: he either dies an artist or lives long enough to see himself become a creative entrepreneur.
We are crazy passionate about curating art ranging from the world’s heavies, such as Gustav Klimt, Paul Klee, or the masters of the Renaissance, while also sharing with you lesser known artists of equally incredible talent.
We only sell art that we would proudly showcase in our own homes.
Click this link here and upgrade your walls with some fantastic prints.
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I’d say that I’ve come a long way from my high school years, when I was struggling to find people who’d be interested in reading my stories. I’m not going to lie: it’s important to know that someone reads your stuff, that someone cares. Makes you feel less alone, and isn’t that one of the reasons we write?
And I appreciate that, and I’m truly grateful for being able to present my ideas or ask questions, to expect a response every single time I need one. But the truth is, we never write for a bunch of people. Yes, we talk a lot about finding our target audience, about all the ways we can improve how we reach our target audience, but that soon becomes a vague term, one that is used to define different people, who only share a number of preferences.
From Game of Thrones to the trend of vampire novels, post-apocaliptic stories, hard sci-fi, cyberpunk, steampunk and all other genres, we’ve fast become addicted to science fiction, fantasy, and horror.
Why such a departure from what “normal” looks like?
Maybe because normal kinda sucks?
Maybe because almost every specie on this planet dreams for the purpose of avoiding reality? Of filtering the stress dealt to its central nervous system during the day?
“From around the age of six, I had the habit of sketching from life. I became an artist, and from fifty on began producing works that won some reputation, but nothing I did before the age of seventy was worthy of attention. At seventy-three, I began to grasp the structures of birds and beasts, insects and fish, and of the way plants grow. If I go on trying, I will surely understand them still better by the time I am eighty-six, so that by ninety I will have penetrated to their essential nature. At one hundred, I may well have a positively divine understanding of them, while at one hundred and thirty, forty, or more I will have reached the stage where every dot and every stroke I paint will be alive. May Heaven, that grants long life, give me the chance to prove that this is no lie.”
Katsushika Hokusai (c. October 31, 1760 – May 10, 1849) was a Japanese artist, ukiyo-e painter, and printmaker of the Edo period.
Born in Edo (modern day Tokyo), Hokusai is best known as author of the woodblock print series Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji, which includes the iconic print, The Great Wave off Kanagawa.
Le Sortie de l’opéra en l’an 2000 is the creation of French illustrator, etcher, lithographer, caricaturist, novelist, and, in his spare time, a bit of a futurologist, Albert Robida.
This 1902 print shows a futuristic view of air travel over Paris, as the artist imagined it would look like in the year 2000. Many types of aircraft are depicted including buses and limousines, police patrolling the skies…