By Boris Vallejo
Vallejo returns to the guts of his proposal - his love for the human physique. He brings to this paintings an analogous vintage composition and eye for the creative power of the physique that liven up his work.
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Extra resources for Art of Boris Vallejo (Art Fantastix)
It wasn’t weighted to be thrown, but that didn’t matter. It missed the laughing man’s face by inches and slammed into his shoulder, cutting off his laughter in a choke of pain. It wasn’t enough. And he wasn’t ready to die. Kaspar waited for the killing blow but it never came. He struggled to roll over, to face his own death, to look it in the bogged eye. He slumped onto his back, gasping through clenched teeth as another wave of agony surged through him, from the wounded knee up through his chest.
Bohme was looking at him strangely. Metzger had seen enough blood shed in hate to know that the things seen in the eyes of others were reflections of the things that burned in your own eyes. They were not secret glimpses of the other man, they were the hidden truths of the self. There had been fear in Bohme’s eyes, Metzger’s fear. The cries of the ravens rose, mad caws that spiralled, taking on an almost human quality. It took him a moment to realise what he was hearing within them: the wretched sobs of a baby.
It was beautiful, like in a fairy tale. It’s gone now, like so much else, but back then, it used to stand sentinel over a mountain pass, guarding one of the old dwarf roads. That was a long, long time ago. I don’t know why I am even thinking about it now,” he said wistfully, losing himself somewhere for a moment. Kaspar had never heard his friend talk about the old days and the history of his family. He had heard whispers growing up, about dark secrets buried deep, but had forgotten most of that stuff and nonsense as soon as he had heard it, dismissing it as fishwives with nothing better to do with their time than gossip.