Josh Hernandez

Hidden in the Shadows — I am giving away this drawing, sign up for my news letter for a chance to win. Link in bio.

The quiet collapse of what was

Even the stars dare not shine — In the quiet depths of night, when shadows stretch long and the weight of the world presses on weary shoulders, the stars themselves seem to falter, hiding their light in the vast, unyielding dark. Life, too, often folds under its own heavy cloak of struggle, where every step feels like a battle against invisible forces. Yet, within this darkness, there is a beauty that only the most steadfast hearts can see—an untold brilliance in every breath, every tear, every quiet moment of endurance. For it is not in the absence of night, but in our ability to love, to reach, to rise, that we find the truest light. The struggle is not meaningless; it is the very forge of passion and purpose, and in the end, it is worth every heartache, every silent victory, to endure and love with all we have.

As you see through me

What was left unsaid

CHAOS ABOUNDS — He rides through the endless expanse of silence, a lone figure draped in shadow, his horse’s hooves stirring the dust of forgotten trails. The wind speaks in whispers only he understands, the vast sky above a canvas of fading blue and bruised clouds. His face is carved from the same stone as the mountains, a mask of untold stories, eyes that have seen the edge of the world and returned with secrets heavy as the night. In his wake, the wilderness holds its breath, as if the land itself knows he is both of it and apart from it—neither man nor ghost, but a wandering soul tethered to something older than time. The earth trembles beneath him, not with fear, but with reverence, for he is the keeper of the forgotten and the witness to the sins of the sun and the moon. Each step, each mile, is a prayer to the unknown, a dance with the eternal.

Drawing in under 90 seconds

The Silent Watcher of Vanishing Horizons 30x44" Charcoal on BFK Rives supplied by @Legion Paper The Silent Watcher of Vanishing Horizons stands as a ghostly sentinel, a figure bound between worlds. The horse, both wild and weary, carries its rider-a chief whose eyes, darkened by the weight of forgotten battles, peer into the endless stretch of dusk. The fading embers of a world that once thrived now flicker in the horizon's tremble, swallowed by shadows. The charcoal, rough and jagged, echoes the erasure of a history, capturing not just the image, but the silence of what is lost in time's relentless march. Link in bio to own the original piece

Unfolding Depths of My Soul

Ink, charcoal, pastel on BFK Rives. Lasy day for prints

The thoughts that burn within me

Guided by the Wind — The rider leans, the stallion flies, Through open fields and endless skies. A whispered call, a wild embrace, The wind's soft hand, a fleeting grace. No path to follow, none to bind, Just heart and hoof, the earth aligned. Through dusk and dawn, their journey spins, Forever guided by the wind. 30x44” Charcoal on archival paper Paper: BFK Rives supplied by @Legion Paper Available at @The Marshall Gallery

I left the valley of darkness

And at once i was not there At once, I was not there—like the wind that forgets its name in the vastness of sky, drifting aimlessly between shadow and light. My shape dissolved into the emptiness, a fleeting echo, lost in the depthless sea of time. But in the silence that followed, something pulled me—an unseen tide, a whisper without sound. I was drawn back, piece by piece, not as I was, but as I was meant to be. The river found its course again, not in the contours of its banks, but in the pull of the ocean that knows no edges. And there, in the endless horizon of being, I was no longer alone; I was the breath of the wind, the echo of the wave, the stillness between every moment. Charcoal on BFK Rives supplied by @Legion Paper madcharcoalshop.com For original artwork, prints, and art materials

Tell me when you hear the scilence — that falls like a veil over the world—when the heavens themselves seem to shudder in disbelief, as love stretches too far, too wide, and breaks beneath its own weight. In the stillness, the heart of God beats, broken and bruised, not for glory, but for the ones who will never truly know the cost. His hands, once so full of creation, now are nailed to nothingness, reaching through time, through every soul, through every wound. The earth holds its breath, and even the stars dare not shine. He cries out into the void, but the void does not answer; only the echo of His agony rings in the dark. Forsaken, yet never ceasing to love, He hangs between the agony of all that is and all that could be, torn between worlds, between hearts, between life and death. And in that silence, in that aching void, do you hear it too? The love that will never let go, even when it seems no one is listening?

The slain lamb — In the stillness of eternity, where shadows wove their silent dance, He came—a gentle agony wrapped in flesh, the Lamb who bore the weight of all unspoken cries. Beneath the brittle sky, where the earth trembled with the echo of unseen chains, He moved, unyielding and broken, a sacrifice not of violence but of surrender. His blood, an untold river, spilled into the soil of a world too weary to dream of redemption, yet longing for it with a thirst older than time. In His gaze, the endless ache of the heavens found its voice, and in His silence, the loudest cry was heard. To look upon Him was to witness the raw, tender wound where God bled for man—an offering that was both a wound and a song. He was the sacrifice that turned death into a prayer, the shadowed light that whispered mercy into the hollows of the soul.

When my elements come apart, it feels like the earth beneath me cracks, and I am both dust and void, suspended between what I was and what I fear I might become. The weight of my own bones pulls me deeper into myself, while my breath, like wind in an empty field, rises, falls, and trembles. There is a beauty in this disintegration—an aching tenderness, like the fading light at dusk that doesn’t wish to leave, yet knows it must. My heart beats, out of rhythm, each pulse a fracture, a longing to connect even as everything slips through my fingers. The struggle is not in the breaking, but in the recognition of how every piece, sharp and soft, holds its own quiet grace, its own sorrow, and in their unraveling, they whisper that it is only through loss that we find the truth of our shape.

And At Once I Was No Longer There — A face emerges from the darkness, half-formed yet already slipping away. Black ink drips like unraveling time, distorting identity until presence becomes absence. The obscured eyes deny recognition, while the parted lips whisper something lost in the void. There’s a quiet violence in the way the shadows consume, as if memory itself is erasing the figure before it fully existed. “At Once I Was No Longer There” captures the fragile tension between being seen and being forgotten, a haunting reminder of how easily we disappear. - 11x15” charcoal and ink on paper