Mani
4 members found (show all)
-
mani wichman
Australia
-
mani
-
Emmanuel Laparra
United States
1527 creative works found
-
Cant wait for the film and love the comic so get it on a tshirt. Take a look at the Who is Watching? Take a Look at Watching the Watchmen
-
These houses are based off real ones
-
I think I’m bored…....... / Nikon D200 / 18-200mm lens with macro ring converter / processed in RAW
-
To send me to you. Featuring the wonderful Millie on the streets of Melbourne.
-
The many moods of Nicole Kidman. With apologies to Gary Larson… Also available as a greeting card here.
-
©2007-2008 Aimee Stewart, Foxfires – please see my CC Terms of Use before considering using this image for any personal or commercial use http://foxfires.deviantart.com/journal/15905899/ / —-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—- I imagine he’ll stick to happier tales from now on! :D Stock Credits: Rat, and window: :iconxnickixstockx: http://xnickixstockx.deviantart.com/art/Headache-64579833 / http://xnickixstockx.deviantart.com/art/Window5-62888386 Candlestick: :iconLunaNYXstock: http://lunanyxstock.deviantart.com/art/candlestick-pack-01-34412835
-
Not my normal affair but may be a break from the norm is good now and then…. Best viewed large… Stock kindly used from Deviant / http://savemiette.deviantart.com/art/mask-78174882
-
This one was the model’s idea as well. We went through several bottles of blue paint. There are actually three girls here, with two of them in black standing behind. Ourselves not actually being Hindu, we had to do some research to find that Shiva actually appears in both male and female forms.
-
© Copyrighted Angelique Brunas all rights reserved. / Do not copy or duplicate without my written permission.
-
We can make calendars (but ....) survey.
by RedBubbleA little while ago I promised I’d have some more news on our calendar dreaming soon – We’re not 100% there yet, still fiddling around wit…
A little while ago I promised I’d have some more news on our calendar dreaming soon – We’re not 100% there yet, still fiddling around with the final printing stock, size, ordering hanger material etc BUT it’s really close … I’ve made some calendars that everyone I show them to like, including some real life users ! So there’s good news, bad news and we need your help. / / The Good: We are looking at a 13 page, A3 sized 300 GSM calendar, wire bound for about $18USD ($20AUD) – Plus a dash of postage. They feel heavy and look nice. The Bad: Christmas is coming and we have too much to do – But, if there is enough demand “we’ll” ( read Justin ) will try and find a way to squeeze them in somehow. The Help: So what I’d ask you guys to do is help us by answering a couple of questions (in the comments or via BubbleMail to me is fine) 1) How many calendars as described above would you buy of your own work to sell or give away ? / 2) How many calendars would you buy from other artists to keep or give as gifts if they were available ? / 3) How many ‘best of RedBubble category’ style calendars would you buy if they were available ? / 4) What’s of most interest – 1, 2 or 3. Ultimately I think we will do 1, 2 and 3 – But for this year we might have to compromise and I want to make sure we make the right choice to keep as many of you guys happy as we can ! James
-
[Taken in Natural Light]. Taken on the banks of the river Nile, remote Nigeria. I got into conversation with this Muslim girl and I felt s deep compassion for her, as she said She sells peanuts to get money to help her Grandfather who cares for her and her brother and two sisters. Her mother is dead and when she died the father just left and never returned. She told me that she only sold three packets that day and she was selling from around 10 am to 7pm. She did not make enough even to buy basic foods. She spoke good English so I knew she had had some education. I and my fellow mission workers bought what she had left. Then I asked her If I could pray for her. She said yes. I asked God to open her heard adn reveal himself to her. We led to to Christ. She wept and the lord really did touch her. We now visit her village often. All proceeds from sale of my art, or donations made via our charity website goes to help extreme poor and sick in remote and rural villages of Africa. We do not take anything out of it. I invite all to Please visit Philadelphia Mission Africa Charity website: / http://www.philadelphia33.org/ Camera: Canon EOS 400D. Lens: Canon EF70-300 IS USM. / ISO: 400.
-
acrylic glazing on canvas / approx 20’‘x24’‘
-
October 12, 2008 in Chesnutt Hill, MA AUTUMN/FALL in the Northeast USA. /
-
...and all of them are me.
-
Montage of the Clematis flower with the hue changed on each
-
“I believe that in our dreams our hearts are healed.” The cool blue color palette gives this piece a peaceful, meditative feeling. Actual artwork is 11” x 11”, Mixed media mosaic, framed in 2” deep, white lacquered solid wood shadow box that can be opened. Dreams Heal is hand-beaded using vintage Swarovski crystals, ceramics, brass embellishments, glass beads, rhinestones and hundreds of Czech bugle beads.
-
A Blue Version is posted on my DeviantART accout... Enjoy!
-
There’s something about old derelict cottages that grabs my attention, I cant resist them …. this one is on a mountain trail in Snowdonia , Wales, UK … / The birds are Red Kites, a once threatened species, now thriving in mid Wales. Copyright 2009 Richie Dean / Three images combined / Photoshop / PhotoArtMaster Canon 5D, 20mm lens / Snowdonia National park
-
A photo of St-Simeon’s pier, the most beautiful place I saw when I went for my little 3 days trip.While taking this shot ,a nice couple on a moto talked to me ,I ask for a little auberge to sleep for the night and they decided to invite me to their home.That’s Quebec,I would have done the same but it was a first for me…couldn’t believe it.I sent some photos by email and they were very happy.They are living at five minutes from there in a beautiful place called La Malbaie near the St-Lawrence river.The same day in the afternoon I took «Pointe-au-Père» and in the evening the sky became lavander blue,a real dream. / / /
-
The many moods of Nicole Kidman. With apologies to Gary Larson. Also available in shirt form here
-
André’s creation: eclectic pleasures
by Maxwell EdwardBlack and white keys, saxophone, guitar, everywhere. The music has much more magnificence than can be tried to be explained through words…
Black and white keys, saxophone, guitar, everywhere. The music has much more magnificence than can be tried to be explained through words. This jazzy rendezvous has always been André’s favourite ear-food. He just loves the way its beauty, splendour, radiance is ‘unleashed’. André stares at the canvas for over a dozen times. Here he is staring at the blank space which is future marvel…or was it to be past marvel? Had he missed his chance, missed the boat which would have sailed to sentimental stardom? He refuses to collaborate more than a sentence for any one idea. Any idea that deserves a sentence must deserve no doubt. Any canvas is only worth the greatest ideas. Two André’s exist; though only one at any one time. The withdrawn analytical front, designed for most occasions. On rare occasions the other character may appear, the intensive, massively determined André who acts on impulses. Impulsive André must be begged out. A Pandora’s Box of surprises, his job will at least never cease to astonish. “Dearest André, Through years have you befriended my son Louis, so therefore I am offering an opportunity to benefit both of our interests (with intent towards your gain). Litton inc., my company has stepped up towards mainstream success. We require visual arts for our newly bought edifice. I understand you have been painting for the eight years since high school. To your discretion I would like to require a painting; just one will suffice. I would like something vibrant and colourful, yet deep and meaningful; Contemporise to your own vision. Much thanks, Dr. Raymond Fonck.” The commissioned paper lies stuck on the wall. André has read it. Now it is time for the future. It has been too long sitting around (or rather bouncing around); too get too much productivity from anything. Someone once said to him that anything is good experience. True perhaps, although he prefers productivity, especially in a time of intensity such as this; three days left until confrontation. His vigilant eyes stroll around the room, searching for advice. He is not bored, nor has he painters block, for such a term does not exist and will not ever for him. His eyes strike the clock. The clock glares 5:48 pm back. What a disgusting fierce look it has. Not 5:45, nor 6:00 and only one uncomfortable minute in-between. For at this time these uncomforting three digits add to the frustration in the actual time. “Aw!” André suddenly realizes the importance of the time. It is the one factor which never seems to be on his side but actually encourages his total progress. It is an epiphany like that of a mother to the newborn. André decides to let his hands take / control. They are the secret key, (sometimes the gatekeepers of unleashing impulsive André) His dominant left one picks up the brush (over time it has made up for its fault of statistically losing him seven years). His right hand decides to lose cognition. It dips itself into a little puddle of Sangria oil paint muck. Than it flies onto the near-centre of the canvas, smeared diagonally. His left hand takes initiative once again, waving lines of smudge to and fro. Right hand brings more paint to its destination. Myrtle, Indigo, Olive, Magnolia…and no, not that…Yes, yes, even black! (Well seal brown to be precise). All of these contextually beautiful colours unleashed! There are no thoughts in André’s mind now. This is impulsive André now; organised thought is of little importance! That colour is important here. This colour is unimportant there. A few lines of any colour are important right here or there, but perhaps a darker colour is better. More negative space up and down the edges. Shape is forming. Lines are bolding. Complete non-representational form is diminishing. Visualizations; the visualized images in mind are being…unloaded bit by bit. It is coming about. What is it though? No one knows. If anybody could guess it definitely would not be André. André knows he has the power to bring out the reality in it though. In a seemingly paradox situation he must not connect to reality at the moment though. Now, after these hours of painting, André is in the painting. He would not know it has been hours besides the constant glare of the illuminating digital clock staring from across the room; it unconsciously processes its recognition into André. The phone screams out, ‘br-ring, br-ring!’ Like the other external matter it creeps into André, until finally its screams become too annoying to ignore. It’s too late now…impulsive André has vanished; his conventional counterpart has replaced him. The phone persists though. André decides to take it (typical for his returned mannerism). He dives across the room horizontally attacking the corner where that nuisance phone lies. ‘Aw, aw, aw, aw!’ A tube of paint has squirt from underneath his stomach. Agonising that his material friend can be so painful at times (like any of his life long friends). He picks up the phone; only the tone. He has missed whatever, whoever it was. Once again, missing the boat… Now thought and all that comes with it has returned. Why now out of all times possible? There is only sadness, misery, all this escalated from these small miniscule misfortunes; all has turned to turmoil! What can one do, when feeling like crawling into a hole? His secret minor disorders such as his claustrophobia would prevent him from crawling into that hole, even if he had one. At the moment everything feels like one big hole. Not surprisingly André’s eyes begin doing the only thing they know to do in times of unrest; wander. It is impossible to ignore what is there; it has been there all along, yet has never been seen. It is beautiful! It is splendour! It is radiance!! It is interrupted by another scream of ‘br-ring br-ring’. André picks up the damn phone. Without contemplation he whispers, “Sir, madam, I’m very terribly busy, could you perhaps call back sometime?” A deep sophisticated voice replies, “Raymond Fonck, André. Listen, I need to know about the progress of the painting. How is it going; ready to sell on Friday?” Many emotions garner at the speed of light inside André allows these emotions to clash inside of him. The painting; it is beautiful, splendour, radiance! How could he give it away now, after an indescribable series of emotional contributions? It is something that has not been attempted before; yet it is new but the expression of old. It is everything, at the moment, hopefully containing more interpretive inoculations for the future. It is a subject, of just some time, yet it contains a collaboration of detail separated from time. It is…once again interrupted by screams, this time of another sort; the infuriating talking of man. “André. Are you there?” Feelings of great rebellion sweep André off his feet. He knows how he will revolutionize his life, because after all; this painting has revolutionized his thought already. “Mister Fonck. I am so sorry. Some things have come over me…a type of sickness…although I am sure you are not aware of this mad syndrome I am suffering due to it. Well to the point, I must say I will not be supplying you with your wanted artwork. Thank you for your understanding. Hopefully we can collaborate something in future.” André hangs the phone up without replies, without a stated understanding from the mister Fonck. Without even the knowledge of acceptance or approval from the mister Fonck…it does not matter. All that matters is this new painting, this contemporised vision. It is everything. Most importantly of all, it is…unleashed!
-
I Died many Times Before… First time I remember, I was still a toddler / sitting in the morning sun, on the concrete floor. / My grandparents’ courtyard in Salamiyeh. / I watched, fascinated, as the massive snake / made its way from the roof / down the wall in front of me. / I held a long stick in my hand, tapped / the giant head as it slithered closer. Second time, a year or so older, also in Salamiyeh. / It struck on a starry summer night. / I was playing barefooted on the patio. / Mother came running to my screams. / Sobbing, I told her a big butterfly bit my foot. / I pointed to where it ran off, watched / as she grabbed a straw broom, killed / the venomous desert scorpion with repeated blows. / I vividly recall her rushing around with one shoe on, / the other missing, laying me in a stroller, / running down darkened streets to the emergency clinic. I also died at age five, along with my mother and sister. / It happened on the two-lane Hama-Homs highway. / Mother unintentionally turned the steering wheel / as she twisted her body to chide us / for backseat bickering. No guardrails. / Nothing but protruding rocks all the way / down the steep drop-off. My first summer in college, I died in New York City. / Muggy night, uptown Manhattan, a block away from Broadway / in front of the big Cathedral. I had my arms up, / as the man who had just asked for a light / pressed the tip of his knife into my ribs. Years later, on a misty morning on Texas Highway 87, / I fell asleep at the wheel. / I had worked through the night in Victoria, / and was looking ahead to my bed in San Antonio. / My Chevy Blazer slowly drifted left / into the path of the oncoming truck. Those worlds / continue without me. / My tombstones there / mark ends of times I knew. In this one, grandmother Um Sami suddenly appeared. / Rounded boulder hoisted high. Arms fully extended. / How she lifted it? How she took dead aim, and launched it / smashing the serpent’s head? / I do not know. I was still conscious. / I do remember clearly / the terrified look on my mother’s face. / How her voice trembled as she pleaded / with the nurse to be careful. She was afraid / the syringe’s needle was going to puncture through / my tiny toe. Mother slammed the brakes as she forcefully corrected. / Car came to a screaming, precarious halt / in a cloud of swirling dust. / We stayed parked at the side of the road for a long time. / Her hands shaking, she gave us grapes, / while she collected her frazzled self. / She swore never to drive again. / Never did. “Let the creep go”, the second robber, / who had just cleaned my pockets with swift efficiency, / told the one holding my life at the tip of his knife. / They took pity on me when I told them / there was nothing in my wallet. / They slipped it back. Walked off. / It took my rage weeks to subside. I could see the whites of the wide-open eyes / of the truck driver, as I twitched awake! / He was already moving to his left / to avoid hitting me. But my reflex was to jerk the wheel / to my right to get back into my lane. / I also stomped the brakes. / We came within a hair of a head-on collision, / as he swerved back into his lane. / That was when time switched / to slow motion… / Me sitting still. / Blazer skidding sideways / on the wet grass / along the shoulder. / Dull-black asphalt road passing / in front of me. / No sound. / Finally, / everything / coming to absolute / rest. In this one an invisible hand / still cradles / my bones. © Assef Al-Jundi
-
loved all the colors on this barn
RedBubble is a great place to find art, design, photos and writing from over 80,000 talented people.
You can buy their stuff
On stunning greeting cards, awesome t-shirts or beautiful prints to hang on your walls.
Risk Free Returns
It’s really simple. If you’re not happy with your purchase for any reason, we’ll fix it.
About RedBubble
Since February 2007 we’ve shipped over 243,200 items to more than 70 countries around the world.
Join In
Sign up for your free account, upload your work, join some groups and share your creative genius with the world.