Expressionist
1 member found
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Expressionistic
Australia
1104 creative works found
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Coloured pencils and water coloured paint on paper. / Mister Gangley’s hands grasped around his son’s tiny skull. Such an unfortunate series of events. / 22×44cm / 2007 Original work has been sold.
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Acrylic on Canvas. 2.13m x 1m / Atmospheric nebulae of colour, energy patterns and black strings of complexity Original sold at Savoy Exhibition, Katoomba – May 08
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145×145 cm, oil on canvas, 2007, private collection South Australia I worked for a month at this portrait, the longest I have ever worked on any painting. I achieved the expression from the beginning, but the problem was the resemblance with the subject on such a large size painting, when my studio wasn’t too large and didn’t allow to see this from the distance. The portrait was very successful, it was sold even before the opening. Many people asked about it, and because it was sold they bought the other portrait I had in the exhibition… twice! That’s right, the other painting, “Capriccio” was sold twice by mistake. Imagine the disappointment of the young couple who found out the second day they payed for a painting which had been sold already. I succeeded in convincing these people that I can manage to do the painting again. If it was “Adagio” I would have never attempted. But it looked much easier to do Capriccio. Doing a portrait twice is tricky, and I was sure very happy when it was finished.
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100×100 cm, oil on canvas, private collection One of my first large portraits of my daughter completed at the beginning of 2006.
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Oil on Canvas
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Original was pencil, ink drawing. Wouldn’t you love to do be able to do this sometimes? Often we are required to put on a face that does not reflect how we feel. This is kind of the idea that we can do this and still keep the integrity of our real feelings below.
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Feeling the spirit,hard to put any words on this,bit like taking a deep breath. / Pastel on canson. / / © Copyright 2008 Jo Hoden, All Rights Reserved. Sally Omar Has done it again ,please check out her folio. Feelin the Spiritby Sally Omar / Feeling the Spirit / Stirring inside / Allowing it to appear / No longer hide / Hearing the drums / Of long ago / Wanting to stay / Yet wanting to go / Hearing the music / The dance to begin / Looking at the dancers / For that special him / The scene is very smoky / The fires continue to burn / There is so much you don’t know / So much to learn / The spirit has entered / Way down..so deep / Your body starts to move / To the exotic beat / You hear the voices / Of the forefathers / Who have arrived / Telling their stories / Of how they died / You want to sit / But have lost control / You’ve come to this place / Out comes your soul / It dances next to you / All red and so bright / You dance till you fall / You’ve danced all night / Feeling the Spirit / The dance comes to an end / The Spirit stays within / Both woman and spirit blend / FEELING THE SPIRIT
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Oil on canvas, 18” x 14” (457×356mm)
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Oil on canvas, 24” x 18” (610×457mm).
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Original painting was Inspired by a photograph by Rebecca Tocci The original has been sold to a private collector. / Visit my Online Art Gallery
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Oil on canvas. A flamenco Dancer. / / C37AB-59AFB-D202A / Bailaora was featured in the groups Latin Flair and Dance. /
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Oil on Canvas / original size 40×40cm
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Night crawled through the window, hoping to not be seen, fell across the bed and made itself comfortable. / “I didn’t invite you.” / There was no response. Night began to whisper to itself in a dream. Its dark shadows fled the mattress and drooled over onto carpet, up the side of a night stand that cradled a temporarily favorite novel, a lamp that had once belonged to the owner’s mother and a stack of unread books purchased at the Goodwill store. Night crawled up the side of the wall and across a painted canvas. It shielded its eyes from the glare outside. Yellow neon shifted in ribbons around cardboard and brick. Headlights beamed, streamed and faded. The sidewalk was bothered by dark shapes streaming back and forth, flickering in jerky animation at times and at others, folding in smooth drapes of darkness, like blue-black frosting. / Night moved. It always on the move. Following. Escaping. Searching. Always moving toward the light. Or away from it. Sometimes Night wished it could lay down and stop running. Just for twenty-four hours. But it never could. / It grabbed its hat and moved smoothly, silently back out of the window and across the street. / “Oh, well, another day another sunrise.” Night said to itself. Then it turned to look back and shouted. “By the way, I’ll be back, whether I’m invited or not.” Change of Scene is acrylic on paper 15”x20”
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From a distance it appeared to be simply a playground. As I neared the edge of a small stream surrounded by tall reeds, I could see there was much more than my eyes had first focused on. Great mounds of glittering gold sticks were buried beneath clay. Silver water lilies floated under rich deep layers of seaweed, lichen and moss. From out of the moss jutted flagpoles draped with ivy and scarves embellished with the faces of people I had met many years before. I watched the scarves wave in the wind. I was overcome with emotion and wept upon the steps that led toward a shelter. I ran for cover and lay upon a stone bench surrounded by flowers. Then I drifted to sleep. When I awoke my hair had turned white and my teeth hurt. I sat up and glanced around. I had a faint memory of the experience before my long, long nap. Yet now it looked once again like a playground. So I got up and played. From Inside to the Distance is acrylic on canvas 30”x30”
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Circles of soft sweet green grass covered hills that drifted toward a hidden sea. The roar of waves crashing against the dawn was deafening and yet contained a silent glee that chimed like glass bells. I saw a flame. At first I was afraid. I stepped away and started to run to the top of the mountain. I looked back. The flames warm glow flooded the path with golden light. I realized that even though it was a fire, it didn’t seem to be dangerous. And the light fell down in drapes to the water, which waited and hugged it. The sand danced and sang songs. It was a kind of wedding ceremony. / “Oh well, I wasn’t invited,” I said to myself and turned to hike away. When I finally reached the summit I looked back down to the grotto with the flame and it was gone. All that remained were flowers. Flame in a Garden is acrylic on canvas 30”x40”
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A cord beats with my heart in patterns that I usually ignore. I try to synchronize to the sounds of those around and it only hurts my ears, my soul, my brain, by slow sluggish attempt to live as a “normal” person. There are many chords that flow through my being. Once I hear them I am happy if I follow their song. Other cords strangle and other connect to living energy and others are simply chains. Beat, beat, beat, my heart which thinks it is more than muscle just as my brain thinks it is more than tissue, just as my eyes believe they see, just as my touch feels it is something more than a dream of of of of of of … / What? That’s the point. I don’t know. Yet I do. Cords and Chords. Acrylic on paper
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We stepped out onto concrete steps that were cracked from earthquake disturbance into black veins from which grass had grown, dried, died and sprouted again. A red flash was reflected in my parked Dodge Neon. It occurred to me that if I’d known the auto would receive so much attention, I would have washed it sometime in the last six months. Then the red glob of a ball flew into tree tops and sat on one limb of an old palm, as if making a nest. Yet the surrounding air and light continued to spin and whirl with white streaks folding and unfolding like shafts of shiny fabric in the sun. / “I heard a loud boom,” my friend said. / “I missed that. But maybe it came from that red ball.” / “What ball?” He glanced around the yard. / A head shot out of a window from the house next door. / “What was that?” The face was frightened and confused. “I felt rumble like a truck going by.” / I stared at the red ball. It twirled and flew in a circle around my head. It bloomed into tiny feathers that cascaded across the sky and then fell like snow onto the lawn. / “That was cool,” My friend smiled and turned his head toward me. “It was like a symphony.” / The face of the stranger next door lit up with laughter. “Wow that was wild. I felt like I was dancing a jig and yet I didn’t move my legs an inch.” / I looked toward the face and wondered if it was an old man or woman. It was hard to tell. Oh, well that’s Hollywood for you. I said, “I guess it must have been all in your head.” / “That’s impossible,” The race frowned with overly red lips and pulled down a wrinkled brow under platinum hair. “Are you calling me crazy?” / “No,” I replied. “I was just saying that things aren’t always what they appear to be.” / “Nonsense,” My friend said. “I know what I see. And what I feel. And what I hear. And I heard a symphony, dammit.” / “OK. OK. I have to leave.” I shook hands and started to hug my friend goodbye and then realized he backed away slightly with a quick jerk as if repelled. I thought how odd it was that I felt such magnetic attraction and he obviously felt just the opposite force. I opened the pulled the car door open and glanced up at the red ball. It was gone. I suddenly wondered if I was going crazy. Then I thought that at least I wasn’t alone. Those too were loonier than I was. Where is That Coming From? is acrylic and India ink on paper 15”x20”
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A thin line of regret grabs at my throat and thickly floats to my chest as I awaken. / What I said. / A pencil of characters sketched along a split second. Too late to pull them back. And apologies are only a reminder to the other person. Why remind them and double the insult? / I allow my brain to lazily assemble events and go back in time. My discovery is that I am the root. What I see as irritating in others, is a reflection of me. / The past and other people can not change. That leaves me and the present. / I can’t stop the flow of barbed, insensitive remarks that spew from my mouth. But I can change the way I feel in the first place. I can change that chunk of anger that is stapled to my back and then forgotten. I can remove it and throw it to the wind, let it fly, let it burn, let it turn to ash, let it blow away so it can be replaced by light. / Roots, once choking, can now nurture. “Roots,” is acrylic on canvas 24”x36” / July 2009
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Under the cool wrap of spring a rose began to form inside of a seashell that had been abandoned by a child playing games on the shore of a swamp. The plant grew to a height unbelievable to the little girl’s parents. The family walked outside to view the enormous growth and, though the girl, Melinda, was thrilled at the elephant-sized rose bud, her mother shuddered and said, “I think it’s a sin for a flower to grow that big.” / Her father swore at the way it covered the sky. “It’s going to kill the lawn.” He said he intended to cut it down. But, Dad was a procrastinator and promptly forgot his plans. So the rose kept growing. Soon it was so big it reached a star and set a table at another galaxy’s throne. The Queen of the Universe was not too thrilled with this intrusion and she promptly proclaimed that it was forbidden for roses by any name to take part in activities that were attended to by stars or moons or planets other than the Earth, where it was well known that anything could happen. / So the flower fell back to Earth to the shore where Melinda collected the dead rose petals and created an enormous book in which to press them. This took her several years to finish. Her hair grew. Her nails grew. Her breasts grew. And her parents’ hair turned gray. Finally she finished the book on the day she graduated from high school. / “Melinda, you always overdo everything. Why can’t you just be normal?” Her mother exclaimed, glaring at the book that took up the space of their own front yard as well as two of their neighbors yards. / “Things like this are just not done in suburbia.” / Melinda was hurt. She was quite proud of her achievement and was determined not to be discouraged. / “I’ll just move to New York City,” She said. “You can do anything there.” / So Melinda hooked up the book to the back of her car and pulled it to New York where she became rich and famous, but unfortunately also went stark raving mad. She had three children that all had rose buds for eyes and a husband that was a gambler and tore out pages of the famous book to sell until there was nothing left. Melinda became an alcoholic and died penniless on the streets on skid row. / However her children, with the rosebud eyes, became quite famous on Broadway as a singing group. They eventually retired from show business, endorsed a brand of rose food and opened a chain of garden supply stores named Melinda’s. They lived forever on the top of a Manhattan skyscraper with gardens that grew to heaven and back. Formation is acrylic on canvas 24”x36” / July 2009
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Acrylic on gallery wrapped stretched canvas. 11:” x 14”
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Oil on canvas, 18” x 14” (457×356mm I’ve borrowed the title of a poem by Samuel Beckett for this painting. I can’t quote the whole poem but here’s a section: at the faint sound so brief / it is gone and the whole globe / not yet bare / the eye / opens wide / wide / till in the end / nothing more / shutters it again
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Magical and Expressive painting inspired by my love of fairy tales and mythology. Original is acrylic and genuine 24k gold leaf on canvas.
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18×24 cm / Acrylics & Watercolours on canvas It will cost you sweat and tears, and perhaps… a little blood. Max Schreck in FW Murnau’s 1922 masterpiece Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens, one of the most influental chapters in the German expressionist movement, the film that started the horror genre in cinema. See more at IMDb / Movie trailer — / / — © All images copyright ROUBLE RUST / Spyridoula Bleta / All the images in this gallery are copyrighted, are NOT part of public domain & may not be reproduced, copied, edited, transmitted, uploaded, downloaded, or published in any way without my permission. Any violation of this copyright law will result in a lawsuit.
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