Rejection Wall Art
46 creative works found
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discarded red teddy on porch
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The answer is YES… / they were terrible!!! / We had to do this shot about 6 times before we got one I liked. The taste was in my mouth for about 3 hours! / My wife gets credit for the makeup and actually taking the picture. / I setup all the lights and camera for her and told her to just hold down the shutter as soon as the pennies started to come out. / Are you tired of the self portraits yet? Sorry…there’s more lol
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This is exactly what it looks like – a sketch-doodle I made while listening to Pain’s Shut Your Mouth over and over again*, on the 11th of April, 2007. / ... / I’m not going to pretend that it’s art or design, but something about it really appeals to me; it’s like his heart has been SHOT out of his chest and he’s reeling from the impact. / ... / (Or I could be reading too much into it because I’m playing loud industrial music very late at night, and I’ve just had a weird tea that calls itself “Rooibos and Vanilla” but tastes like delirium.) / ... / * The Swedish industrial metal band, Pain, that is, not the American one. Shut Your Mouth is one of my favourite songs, and has a catchy riff that will stay in your head for YEARS. You can visit them on MySpace if you wish, but be warned, their lyrics contain some profanity. / ... / Dear buyers: If purchasing this image as a card (which is an interesting choice and I’m not sure what festive occasion it would be appropriate for), I highly recommend the WHITE backing colour, otherwise it will look like his legs have disappeared. / ... / Image quality: / The preview image to the left has been JPEG compressed by RedBubble for security purposes. The original image is high quality and has true, consistent colours. / ... / / ...
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Digital mixed media / Copyright © LiorG 2007
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I was once a tiny baby, / a cuddly furry bundle of joy. / They took me from my mother / and gave me to a little boy. I cried a lot for my mother / and missed my whole family. / But the boy was so glad to / take the time to hold and hug me. I finally grew to love them / the people who were my new family. / Though I often dreamed of mama / and wondered if she thought of me. Time passed and I grew up / and the boy stopped playing with me. / Oh, I think he still loved me, / but now he was a teen. I now lived in a doghouse in the back / because no one had time for me. / Where once I curled up at the foot of his bed / now his skateboard replaced me. I’d find a dish of food by my door / but the boy I now saw rarely. / And I could watch from within my fence / they had put up to separate them from me. They built a pool and I would watch them play / and I’d bark to tell them to play with me. / That only seemed to make it worse / because my barking made them angry. Then the boat arrived and I was left alone / every weekend when they all went boating. / I slept a lot and dreamed of mama / and wondered if she ever thought of me. One day they came with a stranger / who put a chain on me. / They turned their backs and did not watch / as the big man dragged me away. So here I am behind these bars / not knowing what will become of me. / I don’t know what I did to be put in jail / but I keep hoping someone will come and help me. ________ I have seen it happen far too often, people see a cute little puppy or kitten, baby iguana or other little cutie-pie that catches their eye and their fancy for the moment. Without considering the future needs and responsibilities of caring for these adorable little beings, the person “purchases” the “merchandise” and then proceeds to step two of the “owning” process. The little toy is fun for awhile until life and stuff gets in the way, then the little one grows up and requires more room, food, care, medical treatment and attention, so as with any other “toy” it now becomes a discard. The person then proceeds to ask friends if they will take it off their hands. When that fails they take it out and dump it or call the pound and unload it. They think no more about it because it was only just another thing to them. They never considered it has feelings and loves and hurts and often dies of loneliness once having been abandoned by the only person they ever loved. Once the reject is in the pound, it only has a certain amount of time to be adopted before it has to be “disposed” of to make room for more rejects. Then there are the ones the owners keep and selectively proceed to abuse in so many unimaginable ways that a normal mind cannot even fathom. Sometimes these poor things are “rescued” and taken to the “humane” society where they have a short time to be adopted. It breaks my heart. There are some people who truly do provide rescue and real adoption and long-term rehabilition for these poor babies and these are real heros. I recommend visiting these other RB’rs who care about animals and they donate their sales to the cause: Lucinda Migkats ecgardner Whisperingruth Images Do Not Belong To The Public Domain. / All images and writings are the copyright of the artist – © amari, amarica. All Rights Reserved. / Copying, altering, displaying, distributing and/or selling any image without prior written consent from the artist is strictly prohibited and subject to any and all legal remedies.
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This is my ultimate favourite piece that i’ve ever done in my life. What if he didn’t love you anymore? It shows hurt, pain, love, true friendship, it’s just my favourite piece ever.
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When you feel alone in the world
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I found a photo in a catalogue of my wife’s and the lady looked so forlorn I had to paint her.
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Pastel, pencil.
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The second in a series of genetically modified fish exploring the concepts of genetic modification. An interesting article about transgenic salmon can be found at: / http://www.newscientist.com/article/dn11260-tough-gm-salmon-lose-their-nerve-in-the-wild.html
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Rejected
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This cute poor little Duckling had been rejected for what ever reason unknown by mummy Duck…........ This is a real shame such a sweet little guy too ! ..................... )-:
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I don’t make a habit of posting rejected versions of pics, but my collaboration with Kellie Cranmer has been so fruitful, inspiring and fun that I thought I’d make an exception and roll out a few. As my mother, – who liked to get in the last word – used to say at the the annual unscrewing of the lid on the first jar of her legendary & magnificent pickles – Enjoy… From a collaboration with kcranmer. model: kellie c.
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one of lifes greatest lessons is to learn to love oneself sounds easy ??? looks easy ?? thats the art
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edited version (now high res) otis from devils rejects and house of 1000 corpses
by mazmediaUS$3.42–US$91.20
hand drawn pencil portrait one of my first drawings hope you like
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...Jellyfish!!!!
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“Within our deepest and truest selves / is the capacity to weather the / twin storms of / acclaim and rejection… for surely both acclaim and rejection / wash over us like constant breakers; / assail us like strong winds” K.C 2008 a reminder of the life (cost) that it is to be an artist. / There are two storms, both equal in intensity. / Acclaim and Rejection… / Storms that come our way. / (Probably more so for us creative types.) / How we deal with these storms is what will ultimately make (or break) us in the end. / We have to stop and realise that they are in fact both storms in equal measure. / They will come and go. / How do we live, balanced and whole within a stormy environment? / Acclaim and Rejection… / accept that both are a natural part of life, like all of lifes’ storms… / accept them, breathe and move on…
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WARNING : WARPED SENSE OF HUMOUR !!! Another drawing from the distant past.. I’m sure we have all had bad news by letter at some stage or other. So if you need to end a relationship.. or any other nasty piece of work and you haven’t got the bottle to do it face to face.. here’s the perfect “greetings” card for you ! Please contact Dave Edwards for accompanying music. Another influence for this work was the “explosion/disaster” movies of the 1970’s..there were an number of films around at that time that involved blowing things up. The most notable being Zabriski Point) and Closely Observed Trains /
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As you’ll see from my profile, I perceive myself as an outsider “at life’s feast”, as James Joyce might have put it. This self-portrait was the aftermath of being thrown out of an alcohlic partner’s flat at three in the morning: the next day I shoved my face wretchedly on a flatbed scanner, and this is what emerged. PROMENADE Mr Duffy…lived at a little distance from his own body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances. He had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his own mind from time to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third person and a predicate in the past tense. He never gave alms to beggars. - James Joyce November is my friend. / I welcome the blighting of the day, / The spite of liquefying rain, / The facts that things aren’t stars, but smears / Of distant lamps. / Let the dim branches of trees smother me – / I am one with their pulped leaves / Feeling myself to be an outsider at life’s feast / And preferring, perhaps, to contemplate / The dead eye of a costermonger’s mackerel / Or the vegetation that swallows memorial urns; / Indifferent, I am, to the sodden peat that sucks you down / Beneath a slabby sky, engulfing half-living lungs, / Drowning sentience in a blind clasp / - But maybe I’d note the texture of it, the odour of it / As I went under. I’d play the voyeur, as was my custom, / Because it seemed the safest bet. I could have been Mistah Kurtz / Wrestling the imponderable greyness of it all; / Except I had no grand, colonial army. / Suburbia had granted nothing, save everyone’s / Favourite social disease: a buzz of platitudes. / If I am Lord, it is of less than flies. / But you can call me a featherweight Mephistopheles: / Denied (at least) your cadaverous mass of noxious flesh: / A phantom of parchment sentiments, measured and profane. A collector of wayward minutiae, is what I am: / Repelled by nothing save my own face. / And yet, the pathology of this detritus everywhere / Continues to engage me. / Determined (as I am) to judge nothing / Merely to scrutinise and, perhaps, to quantify. / My chloroformed leisure is infinite - / As always it is, for those of us resolved / Not to do anything silly. I know it is important not to be dismayed / And rather, to adopt a proper scientific stance / With only a curious lump in my throat / To proclaim one’s human fallibility. / Vexed by the dissecting room / (Its rancorous brilliance of blades and lamps) / I preferred my research in the field. / A troglodyte, you’d say I was: / A misanthrope, perplexed by the Trick and the Dead / (At what was meant to be alive, and what was somehow not) / Emerging from shadow when I sensed a safe audience / And otherwise, seared by the cold in my skin / Like a confrontation, like murdered friendships. / An embryonic curl was my defensive stance. / Yet, with my mind in free-fall, / I’ll stand outside you, sense – November being / A senseless month. What’s that? How could it come about, my little life / Of studious calligraphy, extemporised on muddied earth? / Don’t ask, don’t ask. / I’d be two or three years old (they say) when the die was cast. / The other boys could make imaginary friends. I’d keep / An executioner. He never forgot a face, least of all mine. / His tutelage was frightful. One learnt how to gouge / One’s own liver – without the added expense of eagles – / And thank him for the privilege. One learnt restraint. / Others would have cried, ‘Somebody hear me, help me / Or let me die. Find me guilty, or let me go.’ / But of course, to earn a trial would mitigate one’s / Punishment. You don’t ask a mechanism to weep. / You don’t squeeze tears from a wafer. / I learnt frugality, to be content / With solitary confinement. Don’t ask if I seek death. Suicide is for rodents / And Norwegians. I want oblivion as my respite from / The poison stain of consciousness. My needs are simple: / To sail on air, like a swan at midnight: without thought, / Off to reclaim lifelessness, my simple option; / Better, at least, than what I must deserve: / Better than scalding gossip or / The intrigue of presumed denunciation, / The scouring of my back for unremembered crimes. * * / / How little wonder, England is my spiritual home. / The way of Little England, that was meant to be / For squandered misfits much like me: / Malcontents, whose rank grudges / Might allow a kind of wayward acumen: / Renegades, who nursed some ingrown canker like a pearl; / If only the pain of being alive; / The pain we felt – so, by a sinner’s inference, / The pain we must have caused to others. / You’d give us absolution, as when / I’d hear grass scrape my skin (somewhere across the globe) / And disappointment gave me my good armour. / England, we learnt, was meant to be / For butterflies upon a wheel, / Rustics and cranks, provincial visionaries, / The types you didn’t mess with. / (The ones nobody would hold, / Close to herself as she dozed, / Wanting you to keep her warm.) / …We’d all be in with a chance. Swept up to / Chariots of fire, we’d find again our voice, our aim. Ein feuchter Windzug…“A wet gust of wind / Ripples the grey waters; in a sad rhythm the sailor / Rows my boat…” Like a lion, grey in winter, / Wary of the twilight of its life / So an English seaside town / Crouches before a November fog. How could I know for myself? / I have not seen his great mane fall. / I have not seen the Promenade’s bright neon bite, / And suffocate on a damp extinction of air. / But this is the landscape of my mind. / This is the landscape of disappointment: / A scab out of time, kept moist by a northern sea. / A hope vanquished by silence, / Containing nothing waiting for the spring. Instead, a further summer’s dead. Knocked / On the head, for England and for me, / Another harvest of oblivion. / No pristine form anticipates its ruin here; / We know it crumbled long ago: / No ruralist’s Elysium came to grief. No / Pestilence flourished, whether of the soul or from without; / No worm in the night, it was, that sickened Blake’s rose: / It was instead, a necessary poison in the sap that filled / A budding form – and frankly, filled it best. / Always self-interest, that propelled each writhing shoot / In Marvell’s garden; and above, his milder sun / ‘That through its fragrant zodiac must run…’ / There too the industrious bee: / Each tiny set of scurrying feet, each claw, each selfish gene / Impelled, Darwinian in necessity, / Shooting out to feed an inner gulf. I loved our mythic Albion, Albion in autumn. I loved / Its captious intolerance and its compassion – the fact / It let me be, even me, whatever the cost, / Even though it knew what I was, even though / It was wearier, world-wearier, than I was – / This nation’s melancholic apparition, noble Albion; / Like our unicorn, like Moore and Russell’s apples. / Our mascot, and one more consoling falsehood. / Truth is: you die, or else you look out for yourselves. / Solicitude’s a luxury for comfortable times / And easeful minds. / / Look at this town, defeated and boarded up. / There is no appetite in autumn: / No clarity of hate (and that attracts me), / No trade to tout for, no words to appease: / No sunshine, to inspire a certain shame. / November is the indifferent month, mired in remote / Seclusion, a month of hopeless peace, and / Circles within stasis; of routine beyond / Resignation. It is (like England, like my own / Remembrances) a home to all, and haven for none. In my mouth, a shard of nickel. From my mouth, / The whisper of falling needles. Stephen Jackson 2004-2005
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