The wisdom of hot men making shitty art - by Julien Posture

The studio is basked in the white glare of the neon lights, the walls and floor are covered in colourful paint splatters, hint of the many hours of feverish, almost carnal, throes of creativity. My attention is quickly drawn to the main character, the man, the artist. Enters six feet of chiseled, plump, glistening muscle adorned only by stained, ripped shorts bearing the mark of the repeated wiping of his paint-soaked, brawny hands against his firm and rounded backside. As in a trance, he lasciviously throws his brush at the canvas with a groan, letting serendipity (and the sheer strength of his shapely arm), be his Muse. The brush falls to the ground as the paint runs its way down the canvas like the droplet runs down his temple. For an instant, I manage to drag my gaze out of the spectacle of this Adonis and look at his oeuvre. As if I were thrown in the cold plunge he undoubtedly started his day with, in a split second I’m released from the spell and realize, I’ve seen this painting

The studio is basked in the white glare of the neon lights, the walls and floor are covered in colourful paint splatters, hint of the many hours of feverish, almost carnal, throes of creativity. My attention is quickly drawn to the main character, the man, the artist. Enters six feet of chiseled, plump, glistening muscle adorned only by stained, ripped shorts bearing the mark of the repeated wiping of his paint-soaked, brawny hands against his firm and rounded backside. As in a trance, he lasciviously throws his brush at the canvas with a groan, letting serendipity (and the sheer strength of h