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96 members found (show all)
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Alberto D'Assu...
Portugal
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Jódís Eiríksdó...
Iceland
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Michael D'Andr...
United States
4804 creative works found
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pastels, water and mould damage (the mould is dead now though. i think.) / I did a sketch of a renaissance masterpiece, though which one escapes me like the name of the first girl I kissed… / The sketch got left in a badly made cardboard folder, in turn left in one of my less spectacular residences. / The damage made it more. Sometimes it does. Don’t count on it though. Also I love the Orpheus myth, of course. Child of Morpheus; the Greek god of Dream. I look at my hands. It is almost inconceivable that so much could be wrought by something that seems so simple. Everything I am surrounded by has come from the these three jointed fingers and two jointed thumb, from this slab of muscle and bone, a wedge of ordinary, common flesh. Objects smoothed and cut and furrowed, drawn and built, made from machines made from machines made by hands, adapted from older machines, drawn delineated, carved and cast. Astonishing capable and versatile tools, a pencil holder and maker, world altering gun builder, love-maker, architect and destroyer. Or, as Monty Python put it in the Meaning of Life, people aren’t wearing enough hats. Ask…. How was this day spent? Did the hours that passed over me, under me and through me, add up to anything at all? Were my gritted teeth and reaching spine accomplishing strength or waste? / And hey, what the fuck, what difference would it have made, as the walls the ceiling the floor the air itself teems and swims and brims and squirms with seething, irresistible life, a wild mutating sea of it dancing on our skins. Each swaying humming atom of each cell a wonder of placement and order, we wear these miracles, hold them inside us, unconscious and what are we but an illusion within an illusion a Russian doll striated with consciousness lapping our own inevitable sensory LIES? / Spoiled and rotted with delusion and memory, hot with denied futility, with aching rasping vanity, digested and recreated each sweeping fucked up morning. How many times will we watch the moon rise, the sun rise, watch a storm wracking the steaming ocean, open our mouths to the pure rain, fuck under the fluted cadence of the stars, how many, how many, before we never again have the chance? / Find the value, a heart skip of means, an agony of choice. Lips mouthing violent truths – touch the hand of a child, thought and love over proof and cost. / Calm ourselves in walking sleep and waking ruin. How many of us are blind to it all? To even the first stuttered consonants of the questions? / Am I really the one with the delusions…? / It’s true, it is. I have never been able to even hold a JOB. I can barely pay the bills I need to be able to survive… I am in so many ways what would be described as a contemporary failure. I don’t own much that has not been given to me. I exist at the very end of means, I am in the lowest bracket (and here’s something in brackets to make my pointed point) of income that this society has, and this society measures success by dollars. And yet I can exist only on its sufferance. Were this any other age, I would starve. A supplicant, as I have always been. Ah well, ah hell. / It’s not only that, of course. I am getting older… and though I rant and rave and rave about value and awareness I have no idea how to amplify what I already have, and if the way I live now is any more authentic or real than anyone else. I could spend my hours, I have considered this, I could spend my hours and days helping people, working towards the easing of suffering, fighting against real monsters. I don’t know where or how to begin. / Bleed white into the dark. Wish and wish and wish again.
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A burnt out car wreck I found in a local forest… and I was supposed to be looking for nice things to photograph! Humanity is destroying the Earth and killing its soul with its greed and disrepect… but if history is any indication Mother Earth will fight back and eventually out live us all. Our buildings will crumble, our cars rust and our bodies turn to dust…and the scars we have left will heal.
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Thanks to Ronya once again for the title idea Wall art by Shepard Fairy AKA Obey
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Pastels on Paper 120×90 cms / Sold the original. Watch hands on an ancient clock, slow but still moving. Clicking in the dark when there’s no one home. Echoing in a hall with light spilling in through the frosted glass. Like when the game is over and it’s time to hold and time to kill, the very very last drop of milk splashes onto the page and the very very dark blue moves in the corner. Walking with me to the end of the isle pewter cups full of thick liquid that catches in the back of your throat and makes you sputter like a fire or a kerosene heater or a lamp or an old sick car with students in it too dumb / to know / not to try. / No time to write or think or curl my fingers around, a dove’s leg curse or a jewel. Pierced, oh sure, like that a pinprick in an open sky, a babbling tower. Water from the sky from the ocean from the heart, clipped, triggered and muzzled, strapped to the enormity of it. Colour-blind and balanced, capsized and immersed, a bridge that’s a seething landscape. / Titan for a Tuesday, dry as a bone wrist or a Doll’s house in the desert. / It smells like strength and vicissitude with only what you want and a cold turned spoke. / Staggering and with a head full full of light, only small acts of kindness, what else is there to find for us silent at the edge of the day? / So then it’s only you and me in a saturated blue, long kisses hard into each other / sweat and confirmation, an engine of conviction, a weapon of devolution. / A slow turning and immense mill with a lidless sacrifice and an angry wasp, pulled from one strung heart sharp over ribs. There’s only breath and life / and no promises from either, go guarantor for me that I’ll be alone, / prove me right with skin that colour, hand that soft, a zealot with a placard walking in the rain. / Drama and faith are such poor excuses. / Only hints and grace, something gone, out into the soft and never ending night with a half heard cry. / I’m sad for you, baby. / I know. I know. / I saw the tremors and the shadows in the kitchen. Like leaves and seeds bent around a chain link fence on a quiet day. It’s only me, just me, that’s all. / I can come and visit and hold your head up for you while you try and sing, like before with both hands that you pushed to my throat. / Wait for me, oh wait for me baby. / I know my arms are empty and ugly and I have hard edges and sway and rock and twitch twitch twitch and I’m sorry for all these things and for the old woman made up for no-one and for the beautiful girl so autistic she couldn’t see and for the tiny mad child that I was / and for the tiny mad child that you were, dirty hands and sweet, / sweet, / bruised skin. / Twelve o’clock on a Friday night, / Run my hand down the side of my face. Crack each finger individually. Give up, give in. Whisper and kiss the side of my mouth. Someplace or something warm. It’s okay. / It is.
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As my second dream horse / came to me that night / it was my own horse Natara who passed / away three years ago / Her coat gimming as she pranced into the night / Her beauty and grace are gone forever. / In memory of Natara de Alborak Two three d images layered Featured in / Image Writting group
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I was playing with the new camera (Canon A460), while enjoying a coffee with my beloved. Only afterwards did I notice that the hole in the crema was almost heart-shaped. Just a slight bit of cloning … not much … almost none, in fact … hardly worth mentioning it really … / / / / .......................................................................................... / Image Copyright Duncan Waldron © 2008 / This image may not be reproduced without permission / .......................................................................................... / /
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digital collage
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beep boop beep
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this was a shot where i was trying to get the impact of the clouds from behind the ferris wheel that it would make the impact of the ferris wheel better with the strong contrast of the picture, enjoy
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still life ... doesn’t it look and feel like autumn ? =) / ©2008 / - / feature Outside the box (Dec 14th 2009) Parallel Dimensions (Dec 14th 2009) DSLR Sony a100 | DT 18-70mm 3.5/5.5 Sony lens | +4 close-up adaptable ring edited in SonyRaw and converted to Png and Jpeg / . / /
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Original Creation Date: May 5th, 2006 Meaning ‘antiquity’, I wanted this portrait to portray a sense of timelessness, yet also capture a somewhat haunting quality that I always find myself associating with the mid 1600’s. Charcoal on 90 lb paper, 16” x 20”, freehand. / Model: Tessa Beebe Original Sold: Victoria, BC Canada
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All photographs and artworks in this portfolio are copyrighted and owned by the artist, Anne Staub. Any reproduction, modification, publication, transmission, transfer, or exploitation of any of the content, for personal or commercial use, whether in whole or in part, without written permission from myself is prohibited. All rights reserved.
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Beginning in January 1881, the Mary D. Hume hauled goods between the Rogue River (Gold Beach, Oregon) and San Francisco for ten years. She then started her service as an arctic whaling ship. She was run aground countless times and even sank in Alaskan waters in the ice of Nushagak River and was raised and repaired in Seattle in 1904. She also recorded the longest whaling voyage of six and a half years! The Mary D Hume was named after the wife of the original owner after he purchased the boat in 1881. The Mary D Hume is also credited with the largest catch of baleen whale in history, valued at $400,000, after a 29 month voyage! In 1978, after the longest Pacific coastal service of any boat, The Mary D Hume motored back between the jetties in Gold Beach and was given to the Curry County Historical Society. Crowds lined the banks of the river and cheered as she came in, and she was entered on the National Register of Historical places. This historic vessel is not being preserved in its final resting place along the banks of the Rogue River in Gold Beach. Everything seemed to go wrong after the Mary D Hume was turned over to the Historic Society. It took seven years to rig a sling. When they tried to lift her out for repairs the sling broke. Then the slings structure failed and the boat fell and sank in four feet of water. And there she still remains, being rapidly destroyed by the harsh coastal weather, the swift ocean tides, and the destructive currents of the large river. Nikon D700 w/ 80-200 mm f/2.8 Zoom @ f/11.0 / 1/500th / ISO 400
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3D Illustration by Jesse J Mcclear
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T-Shirt Revolution challenge / / Almost fifty million Americans are uninsured and those who are covered are often victims of insurance company fraud and red tape. Interviews are conducted with people who thought they had adequate coverage but were denied care, as well as former employees of insurance companies who describe cost-cutting initiatives that encourage bonuses for insurance company physicians to deny medical treatments for policy holders.
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Taken during the darkest days of the year, waiting for the winter solstice and hoping that soon the days get longer and brighter
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My daugter, pic taken at home, in Paris . . / Featured in group Moms 4 Art / “Elle est d’ailleurs was featured in European Everyday Life … / . Elle a de ces lumières au fond des yeux / Qui rendent aveugles ou amoureux / Elle a des gestes de parfum / Qui rendent bete ou rendent chien / Et si lointaine dans son cœur / Pour moi c’est sûr, elle est d’ailleurs Elle a de ces manières de ne rien dire / Qui parlent au bout des souvenirs / Cette manière de traverser / Quand elle s’en va chez le boucher / Quand elle arrive à ma hauteur / Pour moi c’est sûr, elle est d’ailleurs Et moi je suis tombé en esclavage / De ce sourire, de ce visage / Et je lui dis emmène moi / Et moi je suis pret à tous les sillages / Vers d’autres lieux, d’autres rivages / Mais elle passe et ne répond pas / Les mots pour elle sont sans valeur / Pour moi c’est sûr, elle est d’ailleurs Elle a de ces longues mains de dentellière / A damner l’âme d’un Vermeer / Cette silhouette vénitienne / Quand elle se penche à ses persiennes / Ce geste je le sais par cœur / Pour moi c’est sûr, elle est d’ailleurs Et moi je suis tombé en esclavage / De ce sourire, de ce visage / Et je lui dis emmène moi / Et moi je suis pret à tous les sillages / Vers d’autres lieux, d’autres rivages / Mais elle passe et ne répond pas / L’amour pour elle est sans valeur / Pour moi c’est sûr, elle est d’ailleurs Et moi je suis tombé en esclavage / De ce sourire, de ce visage / Et je lui dis emmène moi / Et moi je suis pret à tous les sillages / Vers d’autres lieux, d’autres rivages / Mais elle passe et ne répond pas
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This piece is painted in a style unique to my women and the result is soft, translucent and as pretty as it is sensual. The background is soft and feathery in appearance and highlights the women in the foreground. The overall effect of the piece is extremely luminous, delicate and feminine and sure to evoke everyones interest and appreciation be it on your wall or on a card for someone special.
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G D A E / notes on a violin watercolour on arches / 300gsm cp fine 38×29 cm ____ ______ / Original Artworks / by patricia vannucci PERUGINA ART / My Home – My Studio – My Art Journey
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