The moment I stepped through the doors of the fairgrounds, my heart pounded like it was about to burst from my chest. After my small exhibition in Istanbul, this was another world; the vast hall hummed like the beating of a giant heart, a different language, a different color, a different breath rising from every corner. Colossal paintings, sculptures, glasswork gleaming under the lights… All of them seemed to whisper a thousand different stories at once.
My hand trembled slightly as I walked toward the corner where my works were displayed. "My paintings will stand here, for the world to see," I thought. A knot formed in my throat at that moment. The paintings I had hidden on the walls of my room just yesterday were now open to the judgment, admiration, or indifference of strangers.
Emir, walking beside me, leaned in slightly:
— "Take a deep breath," he said. "This place has gathered to hear your story."
His voice bridged the crowd's noise. I took a slightly firmer step.
When I reached my corner, my paintings were already installed. "Dancing with Shadows," "Broken Times," and "The Silence of Colors" hung side by side. All three were pieces of me, carrying my pain, my hope, and my search. The only thing that passed through my mind as I looked at them was this: They're no longer hidden.
Soon, people began to gather in front of my paintings. Some just glanced quickly, others paused for a long time. I saw moisture in a woman's eyes; her lips trembled as she looked at my painting. At that moment, I thought, "Yes, I touched someone." My art was no longer just mine; it was something that touched the hearts of others.
After a while, a middle-aged man approached me. He politely asked with an English accent:
— "Are these paintings yours?"
I nodded. My heart was pounding.
— "Yes, I am."
The man smiled slightly:
— "I work with a gallery in Berlin. Your work has a powerful inner depth. 'The Silence of Colors' particularly touched me. Perhaps we could stay in touch after the fair."
It was as if time stood still. His words echoed in the air. These words weren't just a compliment; they were a new door opening to the future. At that moment, the knot in my throat dissolved, and my eyes welled with tears. I could only say, "Thank you."
Throughout the fair, I met other artists. A young painter from Italy told me how he struggled with his own canvases; a female artist from Japan showed me how she captured nature with tiny brushstrokes. As I listened to their stories, I realized we were all searching for the same thing: for our inner voice to be heard.
Walking through the crowd, I confronted my own smallness. But at the same time, I felt something profound: I was now part of this world.
At the end of the fair, Emir came to me, looked at the crowd, and smiled:
—"What are you feeling?"
I thought for a moment. Then I turned my gaze to my paintings, then to the colors around me.
—"I'm not afraid anymore," I said. "I just… want more."
That night, when I returned to my studio, I sat in front of my canvas. The fair's crowds still roared in my ears, but a new silence hung within me. This silence wasn't a void; it was the silence of a new beginning, the door opening onto a broader horizon.
I picked up my brush and drew the first line onto the white canvas. This time, I knew one thing: My art was no longer just my own, but a story growing with the breath of the world.
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