Kurdulija
1 member found
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Peter Kurdulija
New Zealand
103 creative works found
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Shortly After The Dream, The Mountains Breathed Out A Morning Glow Across The Still Surface Of A Murky Glacial Lake
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How can it be that we can say so much without words? Madness (from Complete Madness, 1982)
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When She Walks She Moves So Fine Like A Flamingo
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I was not going to leave the zoo without this image. The beautiful bird, I first saw the outlines of through the man planted flora, gracefully glided across the artificial pond. Its motion cut a gentle trail in the small, evening breeze caused ripples. I set an ambush at the narrow part of the pond and waited patiently. No good. The introverted animal was too edgy when passing by, and emerged in and out of the dark shadows at unpredictable intervals. This was going to be a long haul. Luckily, with the ambient light we both needed running out quickly, my desire to capture the elegant curves of this creature and its routine craving to nibble a bit before the day expired reached an uneasy, but welcomed equilibrium. I held my breath and pushed the button with my cold stiffened finger. Timeless beauty. This is not a great story, just a blurb, with a moral that outweighs its size. The ever relevant message to those who take away your freedom is to realize they will never be able to deprive you of your Dignity, your Grace.
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Like Carpet, The Purpose Has Been Pulled Under The Existence Of The Old Bush Hut At The End Of The Railway Line
by Peter KurdulijaUS$3.99–US$106.40
We can draw lessons from the past, but we cannot live in it. Lyndon B. Johnson (1908 – 1973)
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The goal of life is living in agreement with nature. Zeno (335 BC – 264 BC)
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Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one. Paul Eldridge (1888-1982)
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The Cable Car, a Wellington icon, the work of hands and minds from the past millennium, commutes a distinct smell of coal tar between the magnificent lookout at the top of botanical garden and the world of suits and briefcases in the core of the city. What mesmerizing lights it has. The warm tungsten ones rest unobtrusively on the wooden interior of the historic carriage, very much unlike the illumination made a good deal later, those colder ones, overpowering and attracted to the reflective metallic surfaces seemingly capable of capturing their patterns along on each bounce they make. A few signals and neon lights in the background add a topping on this truffle of visual flavours. Let’s get to the other end. Only five minutes on a wooden chair listening to the rhythm of a clickety-clack railway beat, and you will be rewarded with views you’ll remember until the world around you makes sense.
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The Old Shed With A Red Roof, Rusting Among The Sunny Meadows Of Whitemans Valley Be like the sun and meadow, which are not in the least concerned about the coming winter. / / George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950)
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Oskar Was Right, Civic Square Comes Into Its Own Sometime Around Midnight
by Peter KurdulijaUS$3.85–US$102.60
Architecture is music in space, as it were a frozen music. Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von Schelling (1775 – 1854)
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The longer we are together, the more we are alike.
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Sensations Pour In Abundance When The Rainforest Waltzes With The Morning Mist
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The Railway Station With A Myriad Of Trains And One Clock That Rules Them All, Wellington
by Peter KurdulijaUS$3.99–US$106.40
Who travels for love finds a thousand miles not longer than one. Japanese Proverb
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I confess, that nothing frightens me more than the appearance of mushrooms on the table, especially in a small provincial town. Alexandre Dumas (1802-1870)
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Peace is not an absence of war, it is a virtue, a state of mind, a disposition for benevolence, confidence, justice. / / Baruch Spinoza (1632 – 1677)
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Faith is the art of holding on to things your reason has once accepted in spite of your changing moods. / / C.S. Lewis (1898-1963)
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Sometimes you have to sacrifice to get an image. To do things you are routinely prepared to skip, do them on impulse, for the sake of curiosity or survival of your photographic essence, whichever comes first. For a change, wake up early, walk to an interesting destination, one with an aura of permanent popularity like a waterfall or beach, and infuse your artistic being with an extra dose of organic beauty. I reached the pristine flow and witnessed it right on time, tranquil and clear, painted by a mystifying glow, no sun or moon can claim. The sight was so surreal, the river itself had to stop and make a couple of circles before departing towards the sea. Scented green branches diluted their reflections in its placid water, the skeletons of fallen trees slowly morphed back into daylight shapes. The mist and part of the river that managed to take off as a vapor danced softly in mid air. I trapped a little playful bird with my eyes. / / A complete mental inventory for a fairy flavored daydream. Even if your digital masterpiece stays short of its cerebral counterpart, how can you fail to remember the sight that can suspend all of your uncertainties, the insanely lush hazy forest and its river that wears fallen leaves like jewelry. Well, is there a point in getting up early? If the just spoken plea is not enough I can give you a better reason. You should do it because you still can; a fact that may not be equally true tomorrow.
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Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray. / / Lord Byron (1788-1824)
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Don't Tell Me The Sky Is The Limit, There Are Footprints On The Moon!
by Peter KurdulijaUS$3.99–US$106.40
Our imagination is the only limit to what we can hope to have in the future. Charles F. Kettering (1876-1958)
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The top part of the image is the visual testimony to the incredibly powerful forces which shape the skies, including the volatile ones around this impressive volcano. The clouds of different contours and consistencies are sometimes shifted in seemingly conflicting directions, at different heights, in accordance to the latest moods of the ruling winds to reveal clearly these invisible currents in a kind of airborne stratum. What really caught my attention here was the tidy regimented file of fluffy clouds just below the snowline, moving orderly from left to right and straight into the rage of the mountain’s executive arm, its resident wind. Its force showed no mercy as the victims were turned and twisted and consequently ripped into the smallest of pieces, some of them still visible floating hopelessly around for a while, before departing into oblivion at such a speed it made the whole incident hard to believe. The result of the carnage on the land below could be observed as a mishmash of fast moving patterns, shades and filtered lights, like the event was a product of play with some heavenly kaleidoscope. Hard to believe indeed. The real question is how to convey an impression of this kind, one that affects all of your senses to some extent and condense it into one dimensional media as a photograph is. In fact, it’s impossible. This image is the next best thing.
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This is the first age that’s ever paid much attention to the future, which is a little ironic since we may not have one. Arthur C. Clarke (1917 – 2008)
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The clouds … the only birds that never sleep. Victor Hugo (1802 – 1885)
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In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer. Albert Camus (1913 – 1960)
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