Fourth
1 member found
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Nigel Lewington
Australia
456 creative works found
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An interesting play with lines… enough to drive your eyes crazy!!!
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Fifty States in alphabetical order as the American Flag
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This is my brother Todd and a friend on the Bay Shores Beach many years ago.
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I painted this in oils, usually I use acrylics. This is from an small print that was so old it was falling apart. My Dad really liked it so I painted it to canvas and is about 3×3feet. I don;t know the story behind this image but i envisioned the 4 horsemen and the Apocolypse with the fourth horsemen yet to come.
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Girls spinning on a whirling carnival ride during a mid summer’s night; from a series: Sunset on the Small Town Carnival. Owing to the rise of mega-parks and high liability insurance, small town carnivals are rapidly disappearing. Whenever possible I try to document these vanishing icons of the Twentieth Century American landscape. The original image was shot at 1/15th with a camera flash and 2 remote strobes. The long exposure shows motion and the flash freezes detail. I used opposing color filters on the remotes to get better depth in the subject. In post processing I used a combination of effects from both Illustrator and PhotoShop. The big trick was getting the file size down by rasterizing my AIs in PS and reopening them in AI and re-saving as a vector.
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Here’s another in a series of new fashion greeting card illustrations I’m working on. Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop, with hand-drawn elements.
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Fireworks (flying through the air) captured 5/31/08, at a Texas Rangers baseball game. f/8 / exposure: 2 sec / iso 80 / no tripod / no editing / Canon PowerShot G9
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American bald eagle
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American bald eagle, captive bird.
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here in townsend like any other place in the US of A, we celebrated the fourth of july with fireworks. / This fireworks show was actually done in a small community that is within the town, area called Big Valley. / Our town fireworks were done on friday night on the fourth, and they had their’s the next night. / I shot this using the “bulb” setting, which i have realized it’s something I need to practice on. It takes just the right timing to get all the light you can and then release the button just as the fireworks explode. there is alittle trial and error for using this method of shooting, especially when what you’re shooting is constantly changing / best if viewed larger :) Shot this in Manual Mode / using bulb setting / Focal length at 17mm / ISO of 1600 / Exposure time at 7 sec / Ev at 0 / F-stop at F11
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Okay, so apparently what i do with my free time now is make gruelling treks into the mountains because what you see by the road just isn’t cutting it anymore..so i found myself hiking to the Picklejar Lakes in the Canadian Rockies this Tuesday. There are four lakes, each one set a little higher up in the mountains. This is the fourth lake, and the only one to offer me any reflections that day.
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After a tremendous Fourth of July in the company of this lovely young friend of mine, I wanted to portray our excitement to be part of this glorious land. Through troubles and imperfections, we celebrate this magnificant country… Card:Happy Fourth of July. / /
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Yup It’s my eye…......not sure if I like it …........It’s one of those but it may be my next avatar, I’ll probably scale down as I age he he he , next year it will be hmmm Idk I’m not good at math …....umm less than one fifth he he he. I’ve been looking at some old photos and was scared at the amount of makeup I used to wear in my teens and twenties….......geez I looked like a clown ! the eighties were cruel to women ! I guess I’m being more truthful about myself as I get older…............nothing more to hide ….................except for the other more than three fourths of my face oh well I’m still a woman. I’m just being silly ya know ?
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This is a puppy called Uno. He is an “American” Pit Bull Terrier. I was splitting a litter with a girl who got his Mom from me in 2008. Tragically he was the only puppy of 11 who survived. He is now in a wonderful home with a Mom and Dad and 3 kids who just adore him. His breed is truly American, and little Uno was Made In America! :)) / FEATURED IN CATS AND DOGS / FEATURED IN COUNTRY BUMPKIN / FEATURED IN THE APBT LOVERS GROUP / FEATURED IN OUR K9 FRIEND / FEATURED IN THE SCAVENGER HUNT PLACED IN THE TOP 10 IN THE PATRIOTIC PET CHALLENGE – PETS ARE US CHALLENGE WINNER – OUR 4TH OF JULY PETS – IN PAWS N CLAWS / / Also available in a T-Shirt HERE
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I just found this old painting that I did years ago. Thought I’d share it. It was accepted into the Art.com “Urban Expressionism Collection” back in 2006. Acrylic on canvas. Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’ “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’ “The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’ Matthew 25:34-40 / /
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With the July 4th coming up, this sorta reminds me of fireworks and the colors being red, white , and blue is very fitting for the holiday . Train car, graffiti and rust. Nikon D90 / 18-200 mm vr lens
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Firework as viewed from Mt. Washington. The trek to the top of the hill was sure worth it. Pittsburgh, PA. July 2009. Exposure: 15 sec, f/11, aperture priority, 25mm, ISO-100, RAW. / Post-processing: Sharpening/curve/level/saturation. Featured in: Freedom in Words and Arts July 5, 2009. / JPG Cast-Offs July 5, 2009.
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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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canon 50d eastham cape cod mass
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Night falls….the marshy pond is lit by the setting sun….the reeds and bull rushes glow in silhouette…soon the pond will freeze over trapping life till next spring….The Third and Fourth Sorrow.. Watercolour on Arches Paper…two other paintings in the series are shown below…they are unpublished at the moment… The first sorrow of autumn / Is the slow goodbye / Of the garden who stands so long in the evening- / A brown poppy head, / The stalk of a lily, / And still cannot go. The second sorrow / Is the empty feet / Of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his brothers. / The woodland of gold / Is folded in feathers / With its head in a bag. And the third sorrow / Is the slow goodbye / Of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers / The minutes of evening, / The golden and holy / Ground of the picture. The fourth sorrow / Is the pond gone black / Ruined and sunken the city of water- / The beetle’s palace, / The catacombs / Of the dragonfly. And the fifth sorrow / Is the slow goodbye / Of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp. / One day it’s gone. / It has only left litter- / Firewood, tentpoles. And the sixth sorrow / Is the fox’s sorrow / The joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds, / The hooves that pound / Till earth closes her ear / To the fox’s prayer. And the seventh sorrow / Is the slow goodbye / Of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the window / As the year packs up / Like a tatty fairground / That came for the children....Ted Hughes / Whippoorwill / Cricket Call
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“Painted in a semi-abstract style, “The Fifth Sorrow” evokes the woodland in Hughes poem.. / I decided to paint it to look like old woven tapestry, and to that end used only sea sponges and a rigger for details…light is pouring down through the centre of the wood, casting the roots into deeper shadow, illuminating the leaves and the tree trunks…the chiaroscuro effect gives the viewer the feeling of being bathed in the same light... Watercolour on Drawmaster Not Paper View the entire Landscape Collection HERE The first sorrow of autumn / Is the slow goodbye / Of the garden who stands so long in the evening- / A brown poppy head, / The stalk of a lily, / And still cannot go. The second sorrow / Is the empty feet / Of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his brothers. / The woodland of gold / Is folded in feathers / With its head in a bag. And the third sorrow / Is the slow goodbye / Of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers / The minutes of evening, / The golden and holy / Ground of the picture. The fourth sorrow / Is the pond gone black / Ruined and sunken the city of water- / The beetle’s palace, / The catacombs / Of the dragonfly. And the fifth sorrow / Is the slow goodbye / Of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp. / One day it’s gone. / It has only left litter- / Firewood, tentpoles. And the sixth sorrow / Is the fox’s sorrow / The joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds, / The hooves that pound / Till earth closes her ear / To the fox’s prayer. And the seventh sorrow / Is the slow goodbye / Of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the window / As the year packs up / Like a tatty fairground / That came for the children....Ted Hughes / The First Sorrow / The Third Sorrow / The Fourth Sorrow
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There are too many photographs of this bridge from the west side, thought I would try something from the eastern side of the Fourth Rail Bridge.
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