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 Artist
                                
                                
                                    Artist
                                        A painting of a man with a mustache playing a guitar by a window overlooking a beach with boats, with a book and drinks on the table.
                                        
                                        NB: the prompt I gave for the base image that led the present picture is a poem of García Lorca, The Guitar, whose original Spanish version has been translated by Philip Nikolayev (aka @PhilipN)
                                        At the end the obtained picture is not strongly related to the poem (except the guitar...) but I like both.
                                        
                                        The Guitar
                                        The guitar’s lament
                                        breaks the silence.
                                        The winecups of dawn
                                        are shattered.
                                        The guitar’s lament
                                        breaks the silence.
                                        No use trying
                                        to quiet it down.
                                        It’s impossible
                                        to quiet it down.
                                        It weeps in monotone,
                                        like water weeping,
                                        like the wind weeps
                                        over fallen snow.
                                        It’s impossible
                                        to quiet it down.
                                        It weeps
                                        for faraway things.
                                        Sand of the sun-parched south
                                        begging for white camelias.
                                        It weeps like an aimless arrow,
                                        like an evening without a morning,
                                        like the first dead bird
                                        on the branch.
                                        O guitar!
                                        A heart scarred
                                        by five swords.
                                        Federico García Lorca
                                        Translation by Philip Nikolayev