Myrnins' Menageries
Original paintings made into wall art. Each has size and price 11"x14"- $60. 12"x12"- $75. 20"x24"- $150. 24"x36"- $250. And 36"x36"- $300.
Abyssal Bloom/Echoes in Brine
In the deep, pressure-laced silence of the ocean’s cradle, something stirs—
a bloom not of petals, but of memory and mineral,
rusted tendrils unfurling like forgotten coral rites.
Veins of crimson and copper twist through turquoise brine,
as if the sea itself were bleeding stories long submerged.
Drips descend like sonar pulses, mapping grief and growth
in the language of sediment and salt.
White flecks scatter like planktonic whispers,
while orange bursts punctuate the stillness—
echoes of volcanic birth or ancient sacrifice.
This is no surface garden.
It is a bloom born of pressure,
a ritual of emergence from the abyss.
Emberfall/ The Sky's Shedding
Copper flecks descend like autumn leaves from a celestial wound,
each ember a fragment of something once radiant, now relinquished.
The sky is not blue—it is bruised,
layered with green and indigo swirls that speak of turbulence and grace.
Mist-like strokes drift across the canvas,
as if the atmosphere itself is exhaling.
This is not a storm.
It is a shedding.
A release.
The sky letting go of its fire,
and the earth receiving it in silence.
Where the Light Lingers/ Ashen Grace
Soft eruptions of white drift across a field of muted violet and charcoal—
like the remnants of a celestial bloom,
or the final breath of a fire long extinguished.
The texture is ethereal, almost smoky,
as if light itself tried to hold form
but dissolved into memory.
There’s grace in the decay,
beauty in the surrender.
This is not the light of revelation,
but the light that remains—
after the fall, after the burn,
after the story has been told.
Blooming Thoughts/ The Pulse Between Petals
A brain-like lattice unfurls across a blush-pink field,
its curves gentle, its lines alive with motion.
Splashes of green, yellow, and blue dot the surface—
like pollen drifting through a mind in bloom.
The composition is both anatomical and botanical,
suggesting that thought itself is a flower,
and each idea a petal trembling with pulse.
This is not a diagram.
It’s a garden.
A blooming of cognition,
where emotion and insight share the same root.
Dance of Chaos/ Kiss of Order
A face emerges from the storm—half obscured, half revealed.
The left side churns with electric blues and volcanic blacks,
a vertical torrent of chaos,
where lime-green sparks leap like thoughts uncontained.
The right side, flushed in crimson and ash,
holds the imprint of a visage—
not serene, but surrendered.
Lines ripple like scars or ancient glyphs,
etched by the slow kiss of time.
This is not a battle.
It is a courtship.
Chaos dances, Order leans in—
and in their meeting, something human is born.
Flame of Creation/ Cosmic Consumption
A celestial forge swirls before us—
blue fire, green plasma, and the faint echo of stardust.
This is not water, though it flows.
Not sky, though it breathes.
It is the moment of ignition and the hunger that follows.
The textures crackle like cooled magma,
each ridge a memory of heat,
each pigment a remnant of elemental birth.
In the lower corners, hints of red and violet smolder—
the last embers of a dying star,
or the first blush of a universe being born.
Creation and destruction spiral together,
inseparable, sacred,
like breath and silence.
Cronus Rising/ The Glutton Usurped
A god’s face looms large, carved in crimson and shadow—
his eyes wide with hunger, his mouth aglow with gold.
The beard is thick, almost cloudlike,
a veil of age and authority.
Above, blue flames crown his head—
not of glory, but of madness.
The background pulses with dark maroon,
suggesting blood, time, and the weight of legacy.
This is Cronus at his peak—
devouring his children to escape fate,
yet already haunted by the prophecy of his fall.
Tainted Halo/ Devils Regret
A horned figure gazes outward, its eyes lit with spectral blue—
not in triumph, but in sorrow.
The halo above its head is cracked, rusted,
a relic of grace long abandoned.
Surrounding it, ghostly faces drift in yellow-green auras—
witnesses, victims, or fragments of memory.
Their expressions are mournful,
as if they remember the devil before the fall.
The background churns with chaotic glyphs,
suggesting a mind unraveling,
or a soul trying to rewrite its fate.
This is not evil.
It is regret.
A portrait of what power costs
when grace is traded for flame.
Cosmic Kiss/ Under the Mistletoe
Swirling tendrils of turquoise and ivory dance across a textured field of bronze and plum—
like celestial lovers tracing each other’s breath.
The composition is playful yet sacred,
as if the universe paused mid-spin
to lean in for a kiss beneath a mythic bough.
The mistletoe here is not botanical—
it’s energetic, symbolic,
a threshold where opposites meet
and something tender is exchanged.
Heart of Black Flame/ Itchy Ribs
A storm of iridescent turquoise and spectral orange coils across the canvas—
like ribs etched in light,
or the memory of fire trapped beneath skin.
The strokes are restless, layered, agitated—
as if the canvas itself were itching to release something buried.
There’s a pulse here,
a heat that doesn’t burn but gnaws.
This is not a heart of love,
but of combustion—
a furnace sealed in bone,
aching to erupt.
Boo/ Apparition
A ghostly figure floats center-stage,
painted in thick, swirling white atop a smoky field of violet and ember.
Its eyes are hollow, its form soft—
not terrifying, but tender.
The background flickers like a veil between worlds,
suggesting this spirit has just crossed over,
or perhaps never left.
This is not a scream.
It’s a whisper.
A presence felt in the corner of the eye,
a giggle in the silence.
Quantum Currents/ The Ancients Skull
A vortex of layered blue and violet pulses across the canvas—
like a neural storm frozen in time.
Hints of green and spectral red flicker beneath the surface,
suggesting buried energy,
or the residue of ancient cognition.
The texture is fibrous, almost bone-like,
as if the skull of a forgotten being were etched in quantum static.
This is not a portrait.
It’s a relic.
A map of thought,
drawn in the language of entropy and memory.