Struggle
543 creative works found
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Old self portrait. When I wanted to share my story but couldn’t because I felt it was too ugly. Some people talk about their problems. Some people make pictures in Photoshop. © Cadence Gamache
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“the true meaning of life, / is to plant trees / under whose shade you do not expect to sit….” Nelson Henderson Here Goes you are inspiring! undertaking: adventure, attempt, calling, charge, commitment, covenant, effort, endeavor, enterprise, ethos, experiment, guarantee, project, pledge, promise, proposition, pursuit, struggle, task, venture, vow…. Mixed media on canvas / (mostly Acrylic, some impasto gel, gouache, stuff lying around, modeling clay and crackle medium) / 92cm X 61cm / June 2008 Original Painting SOLD
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oil on canvas / 2006
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Just so people understand! / Trucker cap available. Click here…
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Wild horses in Utah.
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A composite image created from many images and layers. All images used in this composite taken with Sony Alpha 350, various lenses, and are mine. TOP 10 FINISH IN THE ‘TEXTURE’ CHALLENGE IN ‘ALT’! FEATURED IN ‘ALL IN, “EDITING”’! / FEATURED IN ‘IN-BETWEEN’!
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Thanks for visiting another vintage composite. The tones were skewed with the “hue” layers option. FEATURED in Inspired Art ~ with thanks to the wonderful hosts. FEATURED in Out of the Past ~ I sincerely appreciate this feature! FEATURED in THE SISTERHOOD ~ many thanks to the hosts and members! FEATURED in Vintage and Gorgeous ~ sincere thanks to the members and hosts. Thank you to the model! Inspired by poetry ~ one of my favorites! Forgetfulness / by Billy Collins / / The name of the author is the first to go / followed obediently by the title, the plot, / the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel / which suddenly becomes one you have never read, / never even heard of, as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor / decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain, / to a little fishing village where there are no phones. Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye / and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag, / and even now as you memorize the order of the planets, something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps, / the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay. Whatever it is you are struggling to remember / it is not poised on the tip of your tongue, / not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen. It has floated away down a dark mythological river / whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall, / well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those / who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle. No wonder you rise in the middle of the night / to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war. / No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted / out of a love poem that you used to know by heart. Inspired by Music ~ Alan Jackson – Remember When
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a world in which even the purest of angels struggle with the Infinite Future Chaos contained in all of us as the world is plunged into turmoil / / / photoshop creative entry =]
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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!
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A FEATURED WORK The entire poem “African America”, as written in 2007, is available to read in the “Writing” section of my Redbubble gallery. “African America” – A Collaboration / Image and Layout by: Helen Bascom – Kentucky – USA / Poem by Leon A. Walker – Florida – USA Thank you Helen for your cooperation in agreeing to work with me on this project. I am so grateful for the use of this wonderful image and for your fabulous layout of this artwork. Helen Bascom is a friend and a committed social activist. She is also a wonderfully talented photographer. You may view more of Helen’s work at: / Helen Bascom
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lone pine tree surviving on the steep slopes of an ancient volcano
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This design is somewhat a bit of a classic. Inspired by a 70’s reggae compilation this image was my first go at stenciling a few moons ago. This one here is a later re-designs of the original … I still like it, it’s strong and powerful and it’s got drips!!! Here is an artwork with that stencil from my flickr stream:
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drawing in corel draw with photoshop filters / www.lauriemcclave.com
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Communist Party of Russia former emblem
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A depiction of trying to keep overwhelming forces under control. Based on a statue I photographed in Zurich last week. I was there trying to organise paperwork, and realised we had been misled and things delayed by a month.
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Eternal Struggle /
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This is another one of the flowers from my show and poems for her. The sun settles over me as I take your hand in mine. / Your body’s warms as you breath, we fought the mighty sea. / Caught in its mighty arms its love for you so strong. / To have you by his side today to be his lovely bride. / But my resolve to keep you mine was stronger than that man. / He wrung your body in his hands his anger full of rage. / And I your willing champion has fought him to the end. / Your life was more worth than mine, as I took the challenge on. / My love for you would see the light and I would beat this man. / His Grip was strong as he took control my eyes on his strong glare. / I know his soul was forged of steel from years of mighty combat. / The sun brought clear to me his this day his broad shoulders born to fight. / It glistened off his mighty shoulders and shone his evil mouth. / And you my love were consumed this day into that ugly hole. / I looked at it this killers eyes set to shallow you. / And said to me you must not fail your love will perish here. / My will was tested on this day your love my strength of armies. / And when I thought that I might lose I thought of hugging you. / Your love so true and so sublime you give me godly strength. / To face this man this monster though I might lose my life today. / I swim into the mighty mouth I am blinded by his fury. / And as I feel the breath leave me I feel your hand reach out. / You struggle to come close to me but he’s a might foe. / His lust for you is all he knows, though he has a stomach full. / I struggle against my mortal needs for a gulp of air. / For one second more and I might fail in my final task. / I grasp at you, you offer me your strength to hold my hand to yours. / And as I cry out in my mind, please my love don’t let go. / And as you fight along with me I feel this mighty man. / I feel this mighty beast cry out in rage he will not lose this fight! / He twist my body like a child and drags me to the bottom. / But I hold true to my deed its you I will not lose. / He scream’s and cry’s as he takes one final mighty gasp, and release’s you to me. / As we rush to the surface of the swell thats all thats left of him. / I struggle to breath in fresh air he’s nearly killed us both. / I hear him screaming in the distance his pain is in my ears. / And you my life are lying here as I breath air into you. / You will live today this battle has been won. / And God would not be so cruel to take you from me now. /
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