Author: Gratis Libre

  • Wilhelm Scream

    These works were created by digital artist & photographer Wilhelm Scream. He uses found imagery, artificial intelligence and his camera to create surreal works that range from the liminal to the totally abstract. His work is inspired by pop-art, dada and the surreal, and it brings those movements into the modern day with digital tools. Mr. Scream is also inspired by Mike Winkelmann, known professionally as Beeple. because he firmly believes in the philosophy of creating art on a daily basis. Like Beeple, Wilhelm Scream is a professional name. His real name is Sam Garbus.

    Scream first found his footing in digital art after he took a photography class, and the professor encouraged him to push his editing to the limits. With his professor’s guidance, he was able to see what compositions he could create with plain images like photos of the ground or a wall. This exercise helped him learn some basic digital editing skills with tools such as Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop. He soon started commissioning logos, and he decided to use those logos in some of his fine art work. Before graduating from college, he advanced his style and broadened his range of tools. He is currently working as a UX design intern, and he pursues his fine art career on the side.

    LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/sam-garbus/

  • Mary Neagle

    Mary Neagle is a mixed media artist from Simsbury, Connecticut. She is based in Bushwick, New York, and she creatively checked off her list of dreams. New York is where she always wanted to live, create art and meet other amazing creators. Now she does all of that, and she also looks back on her life with a smile that shines through her work. In her work, you see different phases in her life through different mediums, and it is very reflective of the transitions she made through the years. She explored video, photo, fashion, music, and visual art for as long as she can remember and she can’t wait to keep growing as an artist. Ultimately, she wants her work to speak for itself and for people to take what they will from it.

    Website: https://maryneagleart.weebly.com/

  • Sooo-z Mastropietro

    Hi-

    Knitting has given me a way to harness my anxiety during this highly unusual time. What began as small sign post cozies has become colorful messages of inspiration and hope. It gives me a sense of power to sneak out at night and hide my work in plain sight.

    I call this, Project aKNITdote as it is an ongoing mission to redirect my energy away from the unfathomable and try to keep my family’s and community’s gaze on something positive and happy. Like the spread of this virus, I strike at random and infiltrate various targets with the intent of putting smiles on faces when people can get out to see their world. My targets include popular jog routes, secret pathways, test sites, and hospitals. There are no boundaries and even with restrictions, I find ways to go out at night and stretch my perimeter. I won’t stop bombing until we resume some form of normalcy.

    Thank you,

    Sooo-z

    Website: Mastropiece

  • Joseph Steve

    Joseph Aimanesi Steve graduated from Obafemi Awolowo University in Ile-Ife with a Bachelor’s degree in Fine and Applied Arts. He is a Nigerian visual artist with over 10 years of experience in handmade illustration, drawing, painting, creative writing, poetry and story writing. His art is expressive and sometimes realistic or surrealistic. His art captures pure energies, different atmospheres and philosophies. He is quite versatile but his focus is mainly on projecting and documenting the past, present and the future of Blacks through Afro Futurism.  He has participated in a few exhibitions and competitions in Nigeria.

    Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/steve.josephaimanesi

  • Renard Kelley

    Renard Kelley, AKA VENS from Long Island NY. His journey started from childhood before he could spell his name. Comic books, especially Marvel, caught his attention growing up. He enjoyed reproducing artwork he saw in comics like Heavy Metal, Creepy and Eerie magazines, until branching off and created his own world of comic. Renard went to school for art. oils, acrylic, still life and landscape paintings, but loved cartoons and the vibrant colors. So, when he was introduced to graffiti in the 80s, it grabbed his attention. Renard also likes to do portraits and still life drawings, but capturing the classic feel of NY graffiti in cartoon form is what he enjoys the most. All of Renard’s art, whether on paper or walls, are not the same with every piece that he does. Challenging yourself creates growth. All of his drawings tell a story of a struggle. He recently started doing digital art and enjoys that as well. It’s amazing what you can do with digital art by taking your drawings to a whole new level. Renard is a member of the world famous original NYC graffiti crews, TNS,TFP, TDS, and EX VANDALS.

    Instagram: @renardkelley

  • Piero D’Agostino

    Piero D’agostino has taught acoustic guitar in some musical institutes in Turin, Italy. In 1985 he composed and performed the soundtrack of the short film, “The Wait,” aired on RAI 3, directed by Fulvio Richetto, and produced in the RAI studios of V. Green of Turin. From 2005 to 2008 a Heidelberg guitar orchestra composed of 20 elements performed some of his compositions in various European cities. In 2018 the film “Buon Lavoro” was released starring Giuliana de Sio, Giancarlo Giannini, Lina Sastri, Franco Nero, Massimo Lopez, and directed by Marco Demurtas for Cinemascetti Produzioni. Two of his compositions are included in the soundtrack. The internationally renowned producer and arranger, Corrado Rustici, with the collaboration of the prestigious and acoustic guitarist, Peppino D’Agostino, has included in the album “For the Beauty of this Wicked World,” a piece of his composition entitled “Ice Sculptures.”

    Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Musica-per-film-111927857255612

  • Jurgen Shperdhea

    BETTER OFF WITHOUT ME

    I feel like the world is better
    off without me,
    Like my very birth was a
    complete tragedy.

    I feel like I live in a maze,
    from which I cannot
    escape,
    And if they open my brain,
    all they will find is pain.

    And pity is a liquor that my
    stomach cannot handle,
    While I’m throwing up from
    drinking one glass of
    attention.

    So have no mercy on my
    soul, but roll my casket
    open.
    And let my corpse just fall
    on the dirt, for every word
    I’ve spoken.

    Please laugh until you can’t
    because this fool is finally
    gone.
    Father, the world deserves
    better, than your second
    son.
    Mother should have
    aborted me while I was still
    in her stomach,
    The very thought that I
    made it this long, just
    makes me want to vomit.

    And sound the trumpets my
    only love for your misery is
    gone.
    The one man that kept you
    as a slave, just sung his
    final song.

    So smile on darling let me
    see that beautiful face from
    the hell where now I’m in.
    You deserve only Heaven
    and light, and not my dark
    side that only fights like a
    grinch.

    No tears to swallow, inside
    I’m hallow,
    And numb the rope
    I’m watching.
    The old stole beneath my
    feet,
    while I feel my throat is
    choking.

    In my final moments I think
    of this,
    Can’t call it legacy.
    Because the great men are
    saving the world, and are
    not losers like me.

    Take this letter, as my last
    will, and while I’m dead,
    don’t shout me.
    It doesn’t matter if I lived,
    now I’m going out by
    myself proudly.

    And let the people know, if I
    had more time maybe I
    would’ve amounted
    something.
    But life is short, just like this
    rope, and I think the world
    is better off without me.

    A CRY FOR HELP

    I feel a cry for help
    gathering in my throat,
    We die a second time,
    when we tell ourselves no.

    I’m finally numb in my mind,
    and I’m blind,
    My tears fall like the rain
    from the sky, I am chained
    inside.

    The human is a tool in the
    hands of this money
    machinery,
    We get replaced like wool,
    when we hit seniority.

    Suppress the revolution,
    And kill the attributions.
    Climb on our necks,
    And steal all the cash.

    Become kings of the world,
    The revolution can wait.
    Father’s deceiving their
    votes,
    Inquisition in religion’s
    name.

    The infants body for
    breakfast,
    The blood of soul for lunch,
    Immortal and not ancient,
    I’m not a poet, but I’m
    harsh.

    Sad but true,
    People working for a wage,
    The revolution can wait,
    Sell yourself for a spoon.

    Slaves building cities,
    Jewels for the richest,
    Power is a toy for lords,
    But it’s hell for the poor.

    I’m not talking to Albanians
    only,
    But to people made of flesh
    and bone.
    I’m talking about these
    murderers,
    On top of every town.

    Seven continents, five
    oceans,
    In the hands of a few
    hundreds.
    Our planet, Earth the
    poorest,
    In the hands of these
    Nazis.

    Rise oh man kind,
    Rise oh European,
    Grab stones oh Asian,
    And March oh African

    America come together,
    Australia burn the weather,
    Antarctica melt and rise the
    water levels,
    To send to hell these rulers.

    These rapist gentlemen,
    And whore ladies wearing
    silk,
    That spend all day in vain,
    And take more each.

    This world has two kinds of
    people,
    A killer and a victim.
    It’s survival of the fittest,
    A millennium without
    eating.

    The revolution awaits no
    strength,
    And this is not a call for
    war.
    It is a cry for help,
    Cause our power they
    stole.

    Its a sobbing,
    A fall on my knees
    for good.
    Its a begging, humbling,
    To have mercy
    for ourselves like we should.

    Cause we’re suffering to
    every extent,
    And we still keep working
    for them.
    Then we participate in
    massacres,
    Like we hate our damn
    selves.

    We must make a
    revolution,
    In order for them to work
    with us.
    And to share in distribution,
    Every bite for every mouth.

    And I hope with all my
    heart,
    The whole world gets the
    message I send.
    Before my name getting old
    to start, The cry for help to come to
    an end.

    CONTACT

    Instagram: @thatsjurgen

  • Deborah Akubudike (@ad_poet)

    THOUGHTS

    SHE:- You walked home alone. Without strength, you fought. I landed in darkness, stone
    cold; hands tied with drought. I was cut from you, not left with much. Your
    explanation for such?

    HER:- My pupils dilated 5mm; I fainted. Hell’s my babysitter, t’is bitter. Lights were
    around me, I couldn’t see. I thought I was blind, then I figured twas my mi
    playing tricks on me. You drove me to a ditch, and when I thought I could stitch
    myself, you said, “no”. I took three pills thrice, that’s how far I could go. You
    committed a sin.

    SHE:- Blame yourself, for your sin be upon you. I told you, “you fought without strength”
    yet you couldn’t fight me. When the shadow falls in a ditch, it does not suffer. It’s
    the corpse that is pictured in newspapers. I repeat, “Blame yourself”. For you have
    limps, I have but a voice. I tell you, you do. We are but the puppet and its
    puppeteer.

    HER:- Wicked are you! You shall suffer….. no, I shall suffer. I shall forever regret thrice
    than you, for you shall surely escape.

    SHE:- You shall indeed suffer. Regret shall no more be your guest, but your roommate.
    For where you are, there he shall be also. I do not cry for me, I cry for you.

    HER:- I too. Let no man be like unto me, for there is no turning back.

    THE SKETCH
    Tears in paint boxes queued up at his feet; he's faint as he held his ego
    like a pen with his teeth (his arms are weak), drawing lines on blank
    space in bleak tunnels. He begins with his face.

    It was 12pm.
    He took two buttons from his shirt and carved out his eyes because they
    were hollow, wallowing in mire, darkened with guilt; underneath, his nose is built like a bridge.
    Each line falls from his pen, he draws his arms without elbows.
    He is scared to stand so he crawls.
    He doesn't shade because he is afraid of the dark; he lost his voice, so he's dumb.
    He sneezed out curved lines to form his abdomen - he called himself, "the wreck". His only 
    consolation were the straight lines of his legs, pointing to the dust and, his brave feet that kissed
    the earth - the only place he'll find solace; the grave.
    He stared at his sketch like a starved wretch, he forgot to draw his lips because he had always 
    forgotten what a smile looked like. He spat out a horizontal line blandly... that's enough.
    He sprang up to his feet to fold his neat truth, his pen splashed its ink on the eyes of his sketch,
    staining it red.
    He glared at it...... now it's complete.

    It's 12am now.
    He stood at the border of the river, dropping the sketch into the clear water with a shudder, as he watched the waves engulf his masterpiece - himself, it swam to the bottom of the river. He smiled 
    and patted his chest; as the bubbles blew him a kiss, he 
    whispered to himself with a still soft voice, "Rest in peace".

    12 O’ClOCK

    When deep waters seem at peace,
    my soul’s put to test.
    When my eyes know no boundaries and
    my fingers aren’t untied, my lips mutter in need – 
    a tasty meal is all it seeks.

    12 o’clock
    When my stomach rumbles like waters in large caverns desperate
    for freedom. 
    My eyes becomes the butterfly seeking nectar, sweetness dances in 
    front of me. It suddenly feels like death is calling, but deceit walks through
    my nose like a passage to the pit where my patience builds.
    I’m suddenly 5 years old in anatomy.

    12 o’clock
    The sun heats my eyes and I see darkness. It is summer but everywhere
    seems cold and my body starts to freeze. I run, like a gazelle, from hungry
    lions in my imaginations. I jump into the ocean, it is afraid to swallow me.
    I struggle to drown.
    12 o’clock
    I scream at the top of my lungs while looking at the sky with utmost
    sincerity,
    “If I perish, I perish!”.

    SCANDAL

    Elegant beauty; princess becomes enslaved.
    Her books – her wishes; the results – an irony.
    She’s 16, with the curves of an 18 year old; her mind’s 25 already. Her breasts are formed from the hypnotizing caresses from the ’50s.
    A gentle knock, a charming smile, batting lashes – and her books turn to the bed; and instead of
    silence, moaning – two hearts beating, or more.
    The agony of a student; the shame of a father. She takes pills so an unfortunate human isn’t
    brought into such an unfortunate world.

    If human hands could make one’s skin glow, then she’s an angel; the only bright light in hell. Her tormentors – her conscience. She tells herself, “there’s no turning back now”, because she wants to tread the path many girls walk – the broad way, and show her dad her grades with a smiling face; a certificate from her incessant “hard work”.

    Only she knows the secret, and the men who hold the key to her success.
    She fights daily to balance and tidy herself in this outrageous scandal.

    LITTLE GUY

    In filthiness you were my companion,
    upon snowy hills and rainy clouds till
    winter be gone. Spring kisses the snowflakes
    goodbye – t’is a good sign though. I walk through
    mire but my feet does not taste nature’s meal; 
    as my eyes see what my toes cannot till 
    I find fresh pools where I drink with camels
    and donkeys, for my journey is thus far.
    Pitiful to think that this little guy 
    bears the pain of my feet: kisses I wish 
    to present to him, but a soul he lacks 
    and would not count my good deeds for pennies.
    My shoulders slack but not as much as this
    little guy as his head hits the dust with
    the rage I carry. A little honour 
    should be bestowed on he who bears the yoke; 
    for if he costed nothing, his deeds may
    have been more priceless if measured rightly.

    My little guy bear thou a little longer,
    I cherish thee more than a soul would hunger.

    MISCALCULATED ACTIONS

    He is but a boy in adult clothing masked with a baby’s tears.
    His grief are his memories, the actions that shattered him like a puzzle. If
    his life were an algebra, he couldn’t find “x”. 
    Shackles in grey-stained paints dangle loosely on the creature in vertical position, his body inclined 75° to the horizontal, his mind filled with rage as the root of his burden is the square of his problems.
    In addition to his pain, his groin is dry as it loses its taste of liquor that he so yearned for, from hotels’ heavenly gates, in his dim lit cage. Now all he does is fantasize about love, peace, happiness.
    And freedom.
    He solved his life like a simultaneous equation – eliminating his good friends and substituting his lungs for pleasure – and ended up arriving at the wrong answer. Subtracting his thoughts from his mind, he is weak and like a wimp he staggers helplessly, clutching the loose flesh swaying on his bones.
    He blames his character, I blame his mind. It said, he did; its words, his deeds.
    He stares distastefully at his answer and realizes he used a wrong formula. If only he solved it better, his life wouldn’t be incorrect.
    Now he waits for the internal and external examiners to decide his fate.

    BEFORE SUNRISE….

    He has unseen visions coated in black and white, frozen in time. He has
    colours in his eyes because the rainbow stains his iris after his tears fall as rain.
    It is the storm in his heart that causes shipwrecks but his soul remains afloat.
    His body drowns in sin;
    He struggles at first, but then he lets its deceitful savoury overwhelm him, and he says to himself, “Happy am I”.
    He prepares for battle, but the war is within his mind. 
    He is, but a street dog, fighting for dirt because he canst not see, it is yet still dark.

    Pride is a ghost rider.

    It took him, yea took him thither.
    Now he canst not go on his knees and tell the Unseen Master, “Have mercy”.

    Guilt is not a slave, but a master. He rides on the poor man’s conscience like a horse to battle and makes him fight with himself. He takes him to the middle of the Red Sea.

    He drowns.
    But, it is not the end.
    When the sun rises upon him he shall, without doubt, be cleansed. But, 
    cleansing…is a choice. Freedom…is a decision. To be saved…is a volition.

    He chooses life, he lives.
    He chooses death, he dies.
    Foolishness is not a sin, but a curse.
    And it is…but a choice.

    QUARANTINE

    I’m isolated. Not thinking; not screaming…just lost in my own thoughts.

    Am I a thorn amongst lilies? The “precious” thread I’ve held for so long
    chokes me till I vanish.
    A virus I caught while holding on; unto a thread I thought would save me…
    …it just wanted a taste of my pain.
    Leaving me isolated alongside other convicts.
    For I’m imprisoned in space for the choice that I made. I’m hospitalized 
    and as I stare at the doctors, they shake their heads slowly and sadly, 
    whispering gently, “There’s no cure… I’m sorry”.
    Their voices sound faint, or is it my thought that’s fading?
    Was it wrong that I touched one infected with love but now 
    I’m completely insane?
    Is it fair that I hungered for passion and now I’m fed with anxiety and 
    pain?

    For the doctors have no cure, yet my thoughts remain impure; and I 
    use the thread I grasped so tightly, to hang myself till I’m free; till I’m 
    reassured…..till my pain is no more.

    Is this me?
    I know not really who is the next in line.
    Who is willing to hold on to the thread…that thread – my dread.
    Who is ready to be choked, till he can’t breathe, by love’s vines; 
    and be thrown down into hell’s busy quarantine.

    I won’t consider it again……smirks.
    T’is good to be finally free; t’is good to be me.
    Sighs.

    LET THE SLEEPING DOGS LIE

    The whiskey eyes I drowned in, is where I died.
    The feelings I masked so well resurrected, like a nightmare that felt so good; that 
    always kept me screaming your name till I couldn’t feel me.

    There’s a shadow beside my bed and as I stare intently, passionately, I find myself 
    kissing pictures…. I’ve gone crazy.
    And when I wipe the glass mirrors at work, I see you staring at my lips…. I look away.

    This is just torture.

    I take my hand so I can’t let go; I’m just craving champagne – every red wine now looks 
    like the blood you took from me. And like a twig, you broke that connection. 
    That electricity that gave me life, you kissed it away. 
    Now I’m like a dead battery.

    Walking dead.
    With the memories that I fed on in my hand, I walk to the graveyard – the place I found you, and I
    place the memories gently beside you.

    It’s time to let the sleeping dogs lie.
    So I let you lie – dead in my mind.

    NINJA

    Books//Textbooks//Notebooks//Scrapbooks…
    Confusion…
    I’m at judo class….. the bell rings.
    Pages littered everywhere, at me they stare. I stare back as I swing my sword back and forth, ready
    for battle.
    I cut them…
    Yes, I cut them in bits with my sword like pumpkin leaves with a butcher’s knife in preparation for
    melon soup.
    I lick my lips as the aroma of blood stings my nostrils.
    My eyeballs fall into the pot, I stir it arrogantly, onion water make my eyes water, I hiss.
    ……a ninja in the kitchen.
    With a back flip and a spin, I thrust my sword into the abdomen of my textbook as I watch its
    content crawl down into the pot like maple syrup on an almond cake.

    Death’s delicacy.

    I am scribbling notes like a toddler, tear my head open with the edge of my sword, and pour in the delicacy down to my spine as it envelopes my cerebrum//it’s what I wished for though.
    I stare blankly at my scribbled notes like a tasteless meal. I had killed all the ingredients I knew, and turned the dead into a delicacy.

    I spat//I spat out my eyeballs and realized I was fighting backwards.
    The bell rang, judo class was over.

    I’d still be a Ninja.

    UNTITLED

    Humid thoughts dripping down my skull, refurbish their way back to my mortal brain. I
    question my tenaciousness.
    I’m damp….
    No!
    I’m dripping wet from the sun’s thorns etching my heart – my blood drips; or is it the winter 
    I so yearned for? I pulchrified my soul, yet I felt so grostesque. I’ve been defiant these years; the
    winds were horrisonant.
    I’m desperate…
    No. I WAS desperate to show off my measly scars to phizogs that turned their backs on me; to
    eyes that refused to see; to hearts that had no glee.
    They say scars tell a story;
    My scars had no one to portray its story to, so I burned them long ago and buried them in lifeless
    heaps. I’ve taught myself never to pule over temporal circumstances.
    I had risen from the dust like a frail zombie twinging for revenge, but I sought just one thing –
    murder.
    I had masked myself as a serial killer, constantly killing emotions that begged to tear me apart and
    I’ve been impeccable; I’ve been licentious.
    I’m not a robot that’s always getting damaged and requiring repair. I’m an immortal trapped in a
    mortal cup.
    Yes;
    I’m a slow driver, nevertheless a fast runner. I’d kill 10 men within minutes and run without a
    backward glance. Not running because I’m a coward, but running because I’m really determined to
    be what I’m not – merciless.
    Now I am just a voice like sunset, hiding in the darkness.
    I bequeath my winter to summer, I want no regrets but to illuminate my words.
    To dig up my location, my address is 52 Poetry Road, Writers Community, WWW;

    a demigoddess.

    Till then, my details remain “Untitled”.

    BLACKmail

    The clock ticks once backwards.
    An hour ago….
    Yonder across the sea laid the terror of the morning.
    “Knock, knock”, cried the “freight” in the box, its motion paved way to agony.
    Boxes of humans were mailed to destinations where death was a guest, sealed in white envelopes where the sons of Adam found no rest.
    One man arises and an arrow of despair is shot as it gorges out his soul and spits it on the dust.
    We were postcards. Blamed for ignominy.
    Output of treachery.
    Brotherhood discarded us, mailed us for gold stones and our worth was divided among the
    worthless in disguise of white suits.
    Our name was sold and we bore the name of another without opposition. It wasn’t adultery, it was
    rape.
    Darkness in light’s clothing.
    Ruffians in priests’ apparel.
    They caused sinusoidal pain, the scar yet did remain.

    The clock yet ticking.
    A minute later…
    There arose saviours from slaves, fighters from the feeble, warriors from wimps.
    Our pain began to heal, our blinded eyes began to see, our sealed hearts gained insight and our broken hearts, foresight.
    We carried the snowballs and threw them where the snow falls.
    The clock keeps ticking, we keep healing, our eyes yet seeing, our hearts yet believing.
    We put forth abjugators to lead us, and invincible we became.
    Vanquishers yet we are.

    THE SACRAFICE

    With my forehead swallowed by my hands
    My vision is blurry because what I see,
    No ordinary man understands
    what goes on in front of me.

    I drink my blood daily,
    The dust is my meal.
    My wife becomes Holy Mary,
    because she knows a bit of what I feel.

    I’ve exchanged my life for patriotism.
    Even though my soul may not suffice.
    There’s no turning back now, I’m locked in a prism.
    My time and life is my mortal sacrifice.

    RED SEA

    He canst not define life.
    The thunder claps and turns misery to strife.
    He beheld little men at the border.
    His eyes spoke once, his lips twice, they did shudder.

    He creates warriors for his ecstasy.
    He showed them the waves where the demons dost flee.
    They took a step back and smiled, they dared not hide.
    They dug into his soul and deep down they knew, he lied.
    He cared not; they dared not look in his eye,
    Where wrath blew like a whirlwind and summer colours did fly.

    “I can but tell thee to leave”, he roared to their ears.
    “Thy wrath be with thee, thy power with us”, they said with no fear.
    With unprecedented fury, he rushed to his prey.
    And with a cane, they waved at him, his elements parted two ways.
    They marched on his nakedness with a grin.
    And watched his pride slide off like sin.

    A LETTER TO THE DUST

    Dear Dust,
    A story I would share, the story in my mind; for the agony I cannot bear, is that I always find.
    Read it out, read it well; I’m a voiceless song, a fireless hell:-

    T’was raining.
    Pregnant grey clouds buried hatred in their bosom and clapped with delight.
    For me was twice younger when my hands touched the cold master in fright.
    My fingers were frail, my lips were supple; my brown hair curled its tail as the shadow greased
    my bubble. Now all I do is mewl, for I have lost my words; the thorns in my heart etched my
    bones.

    It is not raining anymore.
    But, I still see those pregnant grey storm clouds hanging in my heart; unmoving stones keeping my soul bowed.
    Now I am just an erstwhile glitteri, patched up with beauty, grinning sadly.
    A drop of water kisses my breast, I look up.
    This time it is not the rain, it is my tears. It pours down to the dust”.
    Please Dust, accept my tears with kindness. Thanks.

    Yours sincerely,
    A Broken Voice

    Contact

    Instagram: @ad_poet

  • Mirsa Hysa

    I do mural paintings, abstract paintings, I do installation-application paintings, illustration-book, Imagination-fantasy, etc. etc. etc. I’m looking for a job to paint ceramic dishes with different designs. I paint tattoos and book illustrations, I’m looking for such a job, you can help me find such a job.

     
    I am from Albania, I graduated from the Artistic High School branch-Painting, in Shkodër, Albania during the years 1997-2001. In 2001-2005 I graduated from the Academy of Fine Arts-Tirana-Albania-Branch-Painting-Textile. In 2006-2019 I worked as an art teacher – drawing branch in 9-year schools, aged 12-15, I participated in exhibitions where I won 2nd and 3rd prizes.