Colouring movement
525 creative works found
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Acrylic and mixed media / Painted by Ciska Aug 2007 / Original belongs to my darling daughter Charmaine. / I HOPE THIS PAINTING HELPS CHLOE IN SOMEWAY…. HopeForChloe is a site strictly set up for raising funds for Miss Chloe Clinton. Please go over and visit HopeForChloe and have a look at some of the wonderful art that generous redbubblers are donating in the hope that very needed funds will be raised to help this brave little tacker…. / PLEASE GO TO CHLOE’S SITE FOR FURTHER UPDATES…........
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a breezey day created some beautiful patterns on the water. / Whiteman park, Swan Valley, WA For enquires about canvas prints, or photographic prints larger than Redbubble options, please contact me via bubblemail
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If you look closely you can see two trains in this one. Firstly there is the blur of one on the left track heading away from the camera and then there is one approaching on the right track. I’ve deliberately left in it’s yellow light beam… Can you see them try viewing it large.. This was taken on the same night as Departure /
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Shot through a Transit van window on the way to Guangzhou International Airport, China.
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/ Canon EOS 350D 1/5sec f5.6 ISO200 90mm / this is a rather hideous paper weight filled with gaudy floating balls. I just moved it across the front of the camera as I fired / / canon 350d f5.6 1/5 second ISO 200
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Untouched impressionist photograph. Effect achieved using ‘in camera’ techniques. Best viewed LARGE
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View other work from this series Untouched photograph of a cotton sheet – effect achieved ‘in-camera’. I took this series of abstract photographs over a period of approx 15 minutes, standing under a burgundy coloured cotton sheet that was blowing in the wind. Best viewed LARGE / /
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Long exposure of Christmas lights while moving this camera around! / MY BUBBLESITE
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Australian Day Long Weekend – Rainbow Beach, Bonny Hills, NSW. Untouched photograph, effects achieved ‘in-camera’. Best viewed LARGE / /
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A very wild ride from the valentines fair
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this is my daughter now 12 dancing in the lounge room while i played around with slower shutter speeds… taken with a nikon D80, 50mm 1.4 nikkor lens on a tripod – natural light shutter speed: 1/25 sec / ISO: 200 / F/stop: f/2.5
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PAINTING
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Canon 400D Camera + Sigma 10-20 Lens / 80 second exposure @ f8 On the southern tip of Australia you can find this prehistoric anamoly. It is one of only 3 places in the world that does not have any colour. It’s not an easy place to find, but i knew i was getting closer when i noticed that the blue from the sky was turning white, very strange. I was speaking to a local and he told me that they only get colour 3 months of the year, incredible!
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Untouched photographs, effect achieved in-camera. Best viewed LARGE
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Ink on 200gsm Smooth Card ( A4) (not sure of brand as I’ve had it in my studio for many years) FEATURED in ‘Raw Art’ July 2009 / FEATURED in ‘Finks of Inks’ August 2009 Views: 513 as at 24-11-09
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View other work from this series Best viewed LARGE
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Torridon, Highlands, Scotland / / A Soft Caress of Welcome and the Scent of Old High Places. This spacious light was common in those days. A soft silk gossamer net that would have to fade to become mist. That would whisper across the glens in common history and Alexion’s gloaming myth memories. This and that would hide and seek, would become damp and shiver spider pearls from the Popish brown and purple of the mountain. Always catching the edge of a rough dress made from banned and ragged tartan. That would be secret sought for later remembered images and collapse in upon itself to find regional rural meaning. That would eventually create pictures that will hang in the hunting lodges of the rich and royal, in need of cleaning. It was morning fresh mood and midge covered evening in the latter end of Summer in the west. Alexion’s stories of the glen in her century. The Black house highland cow dung, black chicken pecked, villaged small secret world of the hidden and the regional self aware. The high views that were seen differently and with much less romance than now in this sad century. A wish to climb the highest in her remembered sight with the breathless wonder and detailed knowledge of the way down, but still not wanting to return to slavery. The stories mythical of a childhood in this fastness of black rock and crashing falling water. The black witch prediction watchfulness of a mother that did not care and besotted father who apparently did; but only in negative for his animals and the mountain at his back. The black seasoned preacher, with his genital showing perversion and stealing of nightgown righteousness. The light shafted mist that began and ended each short day of work. These were her words. These were the notes musical that tried to convince me of the strangely impossible. That fascinated my youth with such detail as to seem real and seen, experienced and happening then as even now. That to me were legends. That to her were as real as breathing. These she told across my neck lying sweat stuck together as we waited for our breath to come back from the past. That she shouted in her ghost voice to the moon and the unfaithfulness of man. Waiting for an explanation with hypnogogic understanding from me and extra detailed history from her. A soft caress of welcome and the scent of heather and old high places. The even softer accent of whispered clasping and spooned bodies that did not want to let go, no matter what forces were at play. Suppose you juxtapose this memory history with small, sweet sounds on the edge of hearing. Of cold softness, of the bed sinking from beneath and behind. Feeling the weight gradually, slowly filling. There are no sudden movements, only the gradual awareness of something else. Gradual and strange. A weight, a pushing back of the sheets. Of small arms across my chest. Very warm and pointedly aware of nakedness. The brushing of nipples across back and buttocks. There is always in this a smell, an evocative sense of something, somewhere else. Nothing I can usually or immediately resolve, but it comes anyway. I can remember every time a witches warmness moving slowly down my back, solar centring. Gathering around her madness and pulling me in. A prick scintillating pricking that does not feel like love, rising to a pointed word. The centre of a celtic spiral. This is far more than pleasure… She will then and only tell her stories, after the brief vicious coupling that rang in this present past with inexperience and needy solutions. That salty, like the sea, spurted with premature love and sang with unfulfilled hopes before we finished with each others thoughts and myths. / © 2009 Ken Simm.
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Skye, Hebrides, Scotland / / The Tertiary Colours of a Sad Morning. Bloody minded and cruel, illness and mad laughter that has crazily crossed through the blue wood smoke air of what will kill us. Desperate but depressed to be happy in the mornings. If I am not that person to others then at least I must feel free to free myself. The feel of the season evokes the extraordinary. The dripping pieces of yellow blood red from dead webs. The month blood of trees white and supped sap dry. Haw, Green, Bull, Gold, finches all, chase their own particular seed heads. Making the notion of a holy watchmaker less than happy. A life less extraordinary and under used would be nice they say. Not counting on if I disagree or not. In fact because I am here only for them, ignoring it pleasantly. Teach, they say, work at my universal, you see, notion of employment. They conclude this precise commentary, with certain violent force. You will never do what I want you to do creating pieces on your own in your little sheltered harbour of unthinking happiness. Does this wood peg fit in this hole? Does this shiny steel technology work for you? So then why create your own programme of states? Is it more natural? Why live in a Victorian age of brass piped steam and Science Fiction when this minimal reflecting body works so much cleaner? In the morning depression drips like the musty misty pearls of dead water catching on the sleeping leaves. The dumb edges are rubbed smooth in the sleeping matt mist season and the colours provoke smoky fires in the distance. It is important to have their illusions of adequacy for now and relate only to what they have been shown, in the season, for this reason. Dig, root, smell, loam and fungi, such are the names of the hours and the days. Work for others, think up, not down and be careful not allow thoughts the professionals would not like. Mention not your stories, for they are boring and not what we want. No, you cannot paint. Imagine if you are unsuccessful. Calling you by your first full tutonic name as in some pathetic, patronising game of cures. Understand underestimating. they say, charmingly, and why I am talking down to you. Whilst you must talk and work up some kind of accepted rhythm of the season. No, of course, they say, there is no stigma attached to this season. It is only a lack of the colours you have in your box. We now understand what this lack means for us. So there is no need to feel your guilt gods in the morning when the leaves leave a tea stain of rainbows in the little black puddles saved from the rain, together in the tyre tracks that go away. With a sun dog swaying in the sky. © 2009 Ken Simm.
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Please see RoyAllenHunt’s written piece: Are You Ok With This. His incredible song is a compliment to this piece. See here for how I created this shot. I really thought I would wait at least two weeks before I tried this again, but then I went hunting in the pantry and found more dye and well, curiosity and motivation got the better of me tonight! Red and green dye this time around. Green was dropped in first, and allowed to swirl around a fair bit, then the red came in. It looked so much like blood coursing through someone, or something.. Backlit by my computer monitor, showing just a white page. Canon 50D / 18 – 55, 58mm / +4 Filter / f5.6, 1/60, ISO 1600 Featured in First Things / Featured in JPG Cast-Offs / Featured in Core [C.O.R.E] / Featured in Digital Artists United Edited 9pm Original image has been cropped slightly and contrast adjusted slightly. No other enhancements. MCN:CEWWM-NCE4K-L98V7 More photography:
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View other work from this series Untouched photograph. Burnt out Pine Forest, Northern New South Wales, Australia. / Best viewed LARGE
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View more work from this series Untouched photograph. / Best viewed LARGE #1 / #2 / #3 /
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