Scanner
201 creative works found
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No photoshop involved here, rather a scanner malfunction that only accounted for the red and black channels.
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One scanned image repeated 3 times, I call this type of work a “scanograph”.
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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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We proudly introduce the Z8, the most advanced laser barcode scanner in the world!!! Digital mixed media / Copyright © LiorG 2007 This work was featured in the groups Pop Art, Dimensions, Digital Art Compilations and Solo Exhibition. Technical note: This is a composite of 5 photos – the supermarket, the cash register, the barcode reader, the shopping cart and the zebra + shadows + digital effects, all layered in PSP X. Add Lior Goldenberg to your watchlist
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this is me..on the scanner. / share the love.
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Extended exposure high resolution image
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Extended exposure high resolution image
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Extended exposure high resolution image
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Extended exposure high resolution image
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Extended exposure high resolution image with back lighting
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Extended exposure high resolution image with back lighting. Epson 4990
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Extended exposure high resolution image backlighting on white.
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Extended exposure high resolution image with back lighting on white. Epson 4990.
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Cut white tissue paper scanned into CanoScan 880F and edited in Photoshop Elements 3. / This is an experiment in editing and scanning. I did scan a green cut paper piece a couple of weeks ago, but this white one was an adventure, since it was white against the white of the scanner board…there was very little contrast and almost no color. Like snow, you know? I spent nearly an hour “finding” appropriate color and contrast for it in Photoshop Elements 3, starting with a couple of gradients. /
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Captured with Epson 4990
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/ I love spring time, rebirth and pastel colors. It’s a happy time with dressing up in Easter colors to worship the spirit of the reawakening earth. Of course, I had to put it to music: Easter Parade by Leo Reisman and his orchestra
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The beauty and elegance left behind / Reflected in these things now mine / Cannot replace the lonely void / Once filled with your love Divine. In loving memory of my Mother, Evelyn and Mother-in-Law, Nancy on Mothers Day / /
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Scanned leaves with Epson Perfection 4870 Photo scanner. Added a parchment layer and a textured brush to the inverted image. Worked with color using Nik Color Efex
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high resolution capture on Epson 4990
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Layers of callas gathered together from Epson 4990 scan.
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Inspiration: Scanner Art
by communityScanner Art or Scanography describes the technique of creating art using a flatbed scanner. Sc…
Scanner Art or Scanography describes the technique of creating art using a flatbed scanner. Scanners can be used to create everything from unusual self portraits to collages featuring everyday objects or macro images of flowers. Here’s some inspiration from our own talented bubblers: / a kiss from me by Lauren Marr / Les petis bouts de moi by Ghastly / Glasshouse by Murray Swift and Jeweled Horse by Vanessa Anderberg / Losing my Religion by Tobiasthegr8 and No Time by lastgasp / Tungsten flower by Emma Tiley and Scanning Experiment: Tulip by linskudd For even more inspiration, head over to the Scantastic group. If you’d like to explore this further yourself, you might be interested in these links: How to Use Your Flatbed Scanner as Digital Camera http://www.scannography.org/ Scanning 101 How to use a flatbed scanner as a camera Flatbed scanner photography Scanography tutorial If you don’t have time to create a work of your own, perhaps you can help us by having a hunt around for some more inspiration or by linking to your favourite examples of Scanner Art. Nat PS: Mr Baxter has just announced his latest Picture of the Week ... It’s worth checking out!
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July 2009.
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