Sorrow
668 creative works found
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/ / Something can only be beautiful if it is destined to perish. Shot with a: Panasonic FZ30 Shutter time: 1/300 Aperture: 2.8
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broken pieces / colour fading / heavy stem / heavy laden / / Double burden / bending lower / seeds have fallen / moving slower / / but we are one / you and I / in life we lived / and death we die / / to the earth / we make our nest / our summer journey / laid to rest / / (this is a real 2 headed dandelion my son brought to me from the yard today :) / / / >featured< / sold 1 matted print (RB member) / / /
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referenced off a photo by one of my favourite photographers – / http://memelsteak.deviantart.com/
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Dedicated in loving memory of Mitch LeFever. (May 10,1973-January 17,2008) / Rest in peace my dear….I love you. xoxoxo
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Watercolor on Watercolor Board / Original Available This painting is about the qualities of compassion and empathy. Its a detail taken from a larger work, and is my favorite part of the painting.
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100% digital free. 4×5 b&w film + darkroom. * / burn
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Fractal made in Apophysis Yet, O stricken heart, remember, O remember / How of human days he lived the better part. / April came to bloom and never dim December / Breathed its killing chills upon the head or heart. / Doomed to know not winter, only spring, a being / Trod the flowery April blithely for a while, / Took his fill of music, joy of thought and seeing, / Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased to smile. Came and stayed and went, and now when all is finished, / You alone have crossed the melancholy stream, / Yours the pang, but his, O his, the undiminished / Undecaying gladness, undeparted dream. All that life contains of torture, toil, and treason, / Shame, dishonor, death, to him were but a name. / Here, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing season / And ere the day of sorrow departed as he came. Robert Louis Stevenson. In Memoriam F.A.S.
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“st. valentine’s massacre” designed by indie artist Eric Murphy of sadmachine.com Copyright 1996-2007.
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Many thanks to darling Jessica of Back Alley Atelier who is always happy to get down and dirty with me for the sake of art :)
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Watercolor on board, colored pencil. Ravens are intellegent, interesting birds with distinct personalities. Last year I taught a watercolor workshop in Yellowknife NT, 100 miles south of the arctic circle, a place that must be the raven capital of the world. Many women I met there also like them and had stories illustrating just how special these corvids are. Raven flies through the spiritual traditions and myths of Celtic and First Nations peoples. Sometimes with positive associations, other times not, depending on the culture telling the story. This painting was created a few years ago and the exerpt is taken from the portion of my notes describing the way I personally relate to ravens. My father died a few months ago, prior to that he was cared for by my mother and myself, with home health (hospice) nurses coming by every three days. Watching a loved one slowly depart mind and body over a course of days, weeks, months and even years is something many women (and men) are doing these days. Our children grow up, but within a few years we begin caring for aging parents. This painting celebrates not only raven and the waning moon, crone phase of life but the way observing the decline and death of loved ones can sober a person. We look death straight in the eye, realizing that the empty darkness within the skull’s socket is our fate as well. This realization, once it hits you in the gut, is strangely liberating and can shed new light and perspective. Sometimes, at the end of those long days taking care of dad and witnessing all that transired, I’d stand outside in the Texas night. I’d breath in the cool, cedar scented air, gaze up at the moon and try to process it all, just like the woman in this painting. “From birth, when we enter the world of light, until death, when we journey outward through the center of the Big Dipper and onward to the land beyond the pines, women own the power to perpetuate tradition and culture. Worldwide, regardless of patriarchal society’s efforts to negate, steal, and belittle this truth, woman is the cohesive balance within the family. Our caring hands deliver new life, and often escort life out of this world as well, when we care for and accompany our dying relatives to the very end. Our love and actions weave the strands of life within family and community into a cohesive net. When society convinces us otherwise, or prevents women from doing so, the net frays and unravels. The burdens are often heavy, yet women endeavor to perpetuate their powerful role within family and community. All women are sacred, carrying within the promise of future generations. Nothing and nobody can take this away. “ Text and image copyright Helena Nelson -Reed. Please do not use without written permission.
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PLEASE VIEW LARGER!! / thanks ROMO for allowing me to use this: / / to cover my body…i used 3di Authoring, created a mesh around myself then associated with a mask to have that perspective 3d tattoo look …. / added an Indian Daily ( where I sit) and added this: / / *also from ROBIN I then transfered these elements to PS, applied burns, transparencies and just a few color alterations…..
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Too many tears are raining down on me…...... / My tangled state of mind…... / Torn between your lover and the love you leave behind….... / I am just the shadow of the person I used to be….. / A victim of the crime….. / Too much love will kill you, every time…................ Snippets from the title song by Freddy Mercury
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something was wrong with him. every time he looked in the / mirror he became more certain of it. every passing day / widened a chasm, a certain kind of emptiness within him. it / was something he could see in his eyes, a hollowness where / some fundamental building block of humanity was supposed to / be but was not. he could still talk and smile, and seemed to / function well around people, but he knew it must be because / they hadn’t sensed yet that he had a labyrinth of knowledge in / which he had somehow become lost. in his dreams he was / always wandering in the forlorn husks of things that had once / been magnificent but now only echoed his seething discontent / at his own imperfection. the way that he had entered was / sealed and these places in which he had once sought refuge / from the capriciousness of the world were now his prison. each / corridor he tried to exit by only led to more empty rooms, / more places where people had once been but no longer were. / even when he was externally surrounded by others the world / had become a wasteland; the very dimensions had shifted so / that all welcoming things before him were shadows and smoke. / the vaulted ceilings of his most precious hopes were slowly / crumbling and the machinery that drove his will to continue / had ground to a halt. though it was hard to define the outline of it, there was a / certain kind of emptiness about his features. he wondered why / no one else noticed. / —-—-—-——- / picture taken at portside power plant. all rights reserved. / more of my work is available at abandonedamerica.org
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A brief candle; both ends burning / An endless mile; a bus wheel turning / A friend to share the lonesome times / A handshake and a sip of wine / So say it loud and let it ring / We are all a part of everything / The future, present and the past / Fly on proud bird / You’re free at last. - written by Charlie Daniels, en route to the funeral for his friend, Ronnie Van Zant of the band, Lynyrd Skynyrd. / —-—-—-—-—-—-—-- / all rights reserved. photo taken at teton state hospital. / more of my work is available at www.abandonedamerica.org
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Acrylic on Canvas. 1000×740 mm / Tears create a river to the heart, where we can then swim in the hope that will carry us back to the light of a new day…..
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100% digital free. 4×5 b&w + darkroom.
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I am more / than the sum of these wounds, / though they threaten to engulf me. / Yet sometimes, the wounds seem greater than I, / and they drag me back into / the raw and ragged edges of memory, / where pain casts a dark shadow beside me. / Within me the hands of fate have carved / a well so deep that at times there seems / NO way out, / and I claw the walls with bleeding hands and cry for release. Is this all I am? / Is this the meaning to my existence? / Is this what I came here for? Deep within I hear the whisper that tells me to look, / there IS more. / This self same well that struggles to contain my sorrow and incubate my fears, is the same vessel that would hold all my love, / even all the love of this world, / and emanate an effervescent light of joy from its depths. / Yet I pass through it without realizing I have been a prisoner / of my own choosing. How doggedly we hollow out this well, and fill ourselves with what we know, or think we do, / how blindly we allow it to define who we are, / and sound out the rhythm of our being…. / but as deep as the pain cuts darkly, / and the wound gouges out a hollow so black, / so much deeper is that place within that might burst with love and joy, an empty space resounding with potential / and the promise of healing and truth. / IF only we could realize we are more, / than that which we let overwhelm us. I was walking through the forest and saw a red glow ahead of me in the shadows….. there was a bright red circle on a fallen tree and it drew me to it. I could not believe how bright this red wound was, on this tree, a gaping, raw, bloody hole, and it made me weep inside for all living things. This is the sight, the image, that made me think more about my own woundedness, and perhaps the wounds that we all carry and too often lose ourselves in. /
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easily one of the grandest and most ornate asylums ever built, / algonquin river state hospital was a cause of great local controversy during construction / due to running far over budget. the extravagance is evident in the beautiful masonry, / the ornamental woodwork, the stained glass windows with their decorative yet functional iron grating. / olmsted, the man who designed central park, laid out the grounds and the span of the wings / is half a mile, if you walked end to end. / to do so now is impossible. / in an ironic twist, the much-contested (and extremely expensive) yellow pine floors / fared far less impressively over time than those made of other, cheaper materials. / the epic scale of the structural collapse, combined with a devastating fire last summer, / make algonquin river state hospital quite possibly the most deadly building in existence. / floors like the one shown here / give way into gaping abysses, punji pits full of sharp, splintered boards / fanning out from the basement like jagged teeth in the ever-hungry mouth of death itself. / to take this photo i had to make it from the crumbling doorway on the left / onto the sagging mess in the extreme foreground. the floor shifted beneath my feet / and my added weight sent dust and debris cascading ominously into oblivion below. / it was quite possibly the most frightening moment of my life, second only to the one / where i had to get back into the doorway with no real solid ground to support me as i inched closer. / i may not be terribly afraid of death. i may even frequently wish for it. / i am, however, afraid of being paralyzed, of falling onto a rotted shard of floorboard and / laying impaled and broken for hours, with no real help available. i am not too proud / to admit that i wanted nothing more than to stay in the relative safety of the door frame, / or that i am glad that i will never again have to make the nerve-wracking leap of faith / back to the only exit. / that being said, i would do it again if i had to. there is no better example than algonquin / that all things fall apart, and i feel a certain kinship with it. we are both collapsing inside, / and it is an odd thing to see before your very eyes what you imagine / your own heart looks like. / very odd indeed. / —-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-- photo taken at algonquin river state hospital. all rights reserved. / more of my work is available on abandonedamerica.org
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“That which the dream shows is the shadow of such wisdom as exists in man, even if during his waking state he may know nothing about it…. We do not know it because we are fooling away our time with outward and perishing things, and are asleep in regard to that which is real within ourself.” / ~Paracelsus / —-—-—-—-—— / photo taken at tedford power plant / more photos online at www.abandonedamerica.org
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”..... Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, / It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore - / Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” / Quoth the Raven ‘Nevermore’. (Edgar Allan Poe).
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Lady Sorrow : T-shirt illustration / design - inspired by stencil / street art.
by Celia CoulterUS$24.94
vector graphic created from a pen and ink drawing. Was really inspired by seeing street art and stencil art around Melbourne’s alleyways. Somehow it got into my blood and this illustration came out when playing around one day. Copyright Celia Coulter 2007
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