Felix Brandt

‚Colors Of You‘ I stand by the studio window, smoke curling around me, eyes fixed on the canvas. My pants hang loose, button undone, shirt discarded on a chair—just like after every night that becomes inspiration. I know the routine: fleeting encounter, channel the energy into the painting, emotions left at the door. Every stroke, every shade carries the spark from the night, the pulse that drives my hand. But something is always missing. I’ve learned to accept it, to control it all—my nights, my canvas, myself. Feelings only disrupt the flow. My art thrives on impulse, not heart. I usually make it clear before the night ends—what happens here, stays here. Then I see them out, polite, detached. But with you… I let you stay. You catch the golden light near the gallery’s central display, your presence precise, effortless, a pull I didn’t expect. My practiced charm leads you back to my place, as I always do—but this time, there’s no letting you go. That night stretches around us, quiet yet charged. You’re asleep beside me, quiet and still, and I slip into the studio, careful not to wake you. I reach for brush and palette, and the colors respond differently—deeper, more alive, almost breathing. The lines curve and twist, shadows thicken, the energy of the night flowing into every stroke. And there you are, still here, not just a spark to vanish with dawn. Presence. Warmth. Something I haven’t let myself feel. My hands move on instinct, guided by feeling rather than routine. Each brushstroke carries the weight of connection, every color pulses with a new rhythm I’ve never known. You’ve changed the flow of my art, the gravity of my nights, the way I inhabit space and time. For the first time, the painting isn’t just me—it’s us, lingering in the quiet glow of an unfinished canvas, where impulse meets something real. (36, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)