藝術家 An artist-Jane

She is in front of an old, silent fountain, surrounded by a soft morning mist that partially obscures the scene, creating an atmosphere of quietude and mystery.

2024.02.25

在那個燈火通明、聲音不絕於耳的繁華都市中心，住著一位名叫珍的藝術家。她的畫布就像這個容納她夢想的城市一樣廣闊。每天早晨，她都會帶著裝滿顏料和畫筆的手提包，夾著一個便攜式的畫架，尋找一個世界的角落來捕捉。

在這特別的一天，珍被一條鋪著鵝卵石的古老街道所吸引，路邊站著老式的路燈，像是過去時代的遺跡。晨霧在空中縈繞，締造出一層柔和的面紗，模糊了現實的邊界。就在那裡，她看見了一座舊噴泉，水面靜止無聲，彷彿在屏息。

珍架好她的畫架，她的心與眼前寧靜的景象同步。當她的畫筆在畫布上飛舞，她不僅僅在畫噴泉；她還畫下了曾在那兒幽會的情侶們的耳語、曾在水中嬉戲的孩子們的笑聲，以及它默默見證的離別的淚水。

時間在不被珍察覺的情況下流逝，直到街燈開始閃爍，將一道金色的光芒投射在她幾乎完成的傑作上。一小群人聚集起來，被她那充滿熱情的筆觸和似乎要流入畫中的生命所吸引。

這時，一位老婦人走近，她的眼睛在凝視畫作時變得濕潤。“很多年夏天前，有人在那噴泉向我求婚，”她柔聲說。珍聽著，她的心因共享的記憶而膨脹。

當黃昏降臨，珍為畫作增添了最後的筆觸。這幅畫不僅僅是一件藝術品；它是記憶的掛毯，用無數故事的線索編織而成，包括她自己的。在那個從不入眠的城市中心，珍捕捉到了靜止的一刻，這是對於每一個沉默的見證者底下激動生命的證明。

In the heart of the bustling city, where the lights never dimmed and the sounds never ceased, lived Jane. Jane was an artist, her canvas as vast as the urban sprawl that cradled her dreams. Each morning, she’d set out with her satchel full of paints and brushes, a portable easel tucked under her arm, seeking a corner of the world to capture.

On this particular day, Jane found herself drawn to the old cobblestone street lined with antiquated lampposts, remnants of a bygone era. The morning mist clung to the air, creating a soft veil that blurred the edges of reality. It was there that she saw it: an old, forgotten fountain, its water still and silent, as if it were holding its breath.

Jane set up her easel, her heart syncing with the quietude of the scene before her. As her brush danced across the canvas, she didn’t just paint the fountain; she painted the whispers of the lovers who had once rendezvoused there, the laughter of children who had splashed in its waters, and the tears of partings that it had silently witnessed.

Hours passed, unnoticed by Jane, until the street lights began to flicker on, casting a golden glow on her nearly completed masterpiece. A small crowd had gathered, drawn by the fervor of her strokes and the life that seemed to pour into her art.

It was then that an elderly woman approached, her eyes misty as she beheld the painting. “I was proposed to by that fountain, many summers ago,” she said softly. Jane listened, her heart swelling with the weight of the shared memory.

As twilight settled, Jane added the final touches. This painting wouldn’t just be a piece of art; it was a tapestry of memories, woven with the threads of countless stories, including her own. In the heart of the city that never slept, Jane had captured a moment of stillness, a testament to the life that thrums beneath the surface of every silent witness.

My Name is Jane.