Oeuvre is a “work” of art.
This is a French word to refers a masterpiece.
No matter what kind of artist whether you are a painter, a composer or a writer, they all express through their own abilities on whichever belongs to them. All skills have are equivalent to each other.
The masterpieces are made to be unveiled. Seen or heard. The displays of talent to be known and the chances to be appreciated.
We live in a world of creation.
As a writer myself, I do what works for my work right here. This would elevate your perceptive abilities and ego, yet remember that there are would-be disappointments. But as long as there are people who does acknowledge you, it is enough to feel that you have an existence. Whichever sort of artist you are in any form may understand from what I am writing.
All works in foundation and meaning, is an oeuvre.
The imaginations that runs through your skin as your brain boils. The instances of inspiration whether if is reality or fantasy, it becomes alive.
Embedded within a work has a smaller fragment of a soul. Each of them has their own timed expressions. Their own personas and relativity. They resonate silently to their artist or admirers as if they exchange secrets.
This complexity could not be fully apprehended. I, myself is a fine example as well.
Would you agree or not to my oeuvre?
Don’t let my suspense fool you.
There’s still more to see. Find it yourself, there’s never an end.