Symbolist
35 creative works found
-
tempera and pastel on mdf / cm 70×100
-
tempera and pastel on mdf / cm 60×105 my house, my garden … in summer obviously
-
drawing on paper Fabriano,drawing pad for sketches, ink pen / cm 43×36
-
tempera and pastel on mdf / cm 70×100
-
tempera and pastel on mdf / _ cm 30×50_
-
tempera and pastel on mdf / cm 70×70
-
tempera and pastel on mdf
-
drawing on paper, ink pen / my avatar is a bit of this one
-
tempera and pastel on mdf / cm 46×94
-
tempera and pastel on mdf / cm 55X100
-
tempera and pastel on mdf / cm 120×53
-
tempera and pastel on mdf
-
tempera and pastel on mdf / cm 45×100
-
tempera and pastel on mdf / cm 70×100
-
This was done with a blue ballpoint pen and soft watercolour washes. It is my most personal painting and is very moody and detailed. It is a symbolist work where I was thinking about the sacred creative space we all have within us where we can be thoughtful and sad, where we can dream and draw inspiration from deep within. / It was inspired by a phenomenal young photographer Francesca Woodman who died tragically young but was an immensely talented and sensitive woman.
-
This image was inspired by Gustav Klimt´s “The Kiss”, one of the most important works of this outstanding Austrian Symbolist painter . / You can read a brief on Gustav Klimt by clicking here Basic image is a cinema4D render including the couple, the trash container, the violin and other objects; rest was added later by blending layers; also a bit of digital painting. / Thanks for stopping by.
-
tempera and pastel on mdf / cm 50×70
-
water colors on paper “Schoellershammer “ / cm 35×50
-
tempera and pastel on mdf
-
figurative pastel on colourfix primed blue mi-tiente board 60cmx70cm / see my bubblesite / artist interview / my website
-
This is a photograph of a open yellow Sacred Lotus at the Nan Tien Buddhist Temple. Th e largest Buddhist Temple in the Southern Hemisphere located at Wollongong N.S.W Australia.
-
With some trepidation, I’m beginning to upload work which I do as an Outsider artists – not pretty-pretty, this stuff, but reflections on an introspective state. In the Nineteenth Century, symbolism was all the rage: Now it has been consigned to a private taboo. Perhaps a polite and embarrassed silence will be all that awaits it on Red Bubble? This was an illustration to an early poem of mine, which is printed below. I remembered Odilon Redon’s lithograph, The Spider, and I wanted to create something which might provoke a similar sudder of revulsion. The truth is, of course, that insects are merely automata: bejewelled robots, if you like, fumbling from A to B on microscopic and private business. Let’s leave them be. But here’s the poem: THE PARLIAMENT OF INSECTS Imagine, if you will, / The copulation of flies. / The machinery of how / Their horrid glances meet: / Flirting, the way cadavers might / If you gave them electric shocks. / Behold their bristling embrace, / Hard, mechanistic lusts - Lascivious, staccato. / With moon-looming eyes / Too lamplike-gloomy to leer. / Within, a shiver of poison green as sap. The politics of insects / Are dismal affairs. / They have no breath, you know; debates are scant. / A dialectic, theirs, of rasping limbs: / Their treaties are the rhetoric of instinct: / The reflexes of nothing more than / Chemistry, and vermicelli genes, / Besotted, lovelessly, with instinct’s strident propaganda, / Squirting sperm whilst spongy flesh / Is guzzled, nipped away. / A puritan’s grotesque, in fancy dress – / No soft cheeks, here, for lovers to touch or hold. / Instead, the clockwork grimace / Of an armoured face, a gourd / Of pus and fossil leather, and obsession. Some of them creep their way through libraries, / Connoisseurs of incomprehension, / Feasting nightly on newspaper obituaries: / Their emblemed armour burnished, / Their predator’s antennae crisp / As a metronome’s predestined tick. / Their Chancellor, meanwhile, wearies of his / Multitudes, clambering in dogged engrossment, to / Fulfil their Five-Year Plan; knowing / - Or knowing not – what they do… / That work will make you free. / Free, as mayflies are, for a day. The ranks themselves have little room / For irony. It’s not the stuff they / Serve up on parade. / It lacks the imperative mood. / Their Lord Protector, liege of all surveyed, / (Who keeps ears on his legs) / Cannot secrete it, put it by, / For late denunciations. / Betraying a clamour of fables, / It’s irony that sets no honeyed words – / One has to be in the know; / Whilst insect rallies cram the boulevards / So lately hemmed by corpses, / Or enemies stripped, already, for ravenous mouths. / For, in this kingdom, nothing goes to waste. / The system runs on time. / Rigour and freedom seldom coincide; / Both shun the possibility of despair. / But arthropods, they’re are as sincere as / Advertisers. As marketing men, riding / A nervous breakdown. I killed a bluebottle the other day. / It sat there, all complacent / Like an undetected criminal, / A gobbet of filth. / An animation of shit and grime, / Thinking it was like a normal man. / Presuming it could still / Smile at its future, / Just like the rest of us – I made sure it was finished. / My belief is, Providence gave a hand. / We were both so lucky, / I and the fly, / To be at the right place / At the right time. May 2001
-
With some trepidation, I’m beginning to upload work which I do as an Outsider artists – not pretty-pretty, this stuff, but reflections on an introspective state. In the Nineteenth Century, Symbolism was all the rage: now it has been consigned to a private taboo. Perhaps a polite and embarrassed silence will be all that awaits it on Red Bubble? Apropos: here was an early poem which took as the starting point for its overwhelmed disappointment a macabre London Exhibition by Gunther von Hagens. ANATOMY Beneath the feverish chintz of / Someone else’s living room / I contemplate my own mortality, / And the thought of it wearies me. The dowdiness of blood, you see, / Disappoints me. Especially dried blood. / Especially viscera, reclaimed by scorched earth, / Dry as dead love. We know what it’s all / For. We know what we / Amount to, each of us. But here’s a book. A book “for the true book”, / Or so its authors would have said. The annals of / La Specola, of Florence, all in wax. / A museum, it was, of human guts. I hadn’t / Heard of it. Tussaud’s the name we recognise. / That eternal Madame, grim and primly zealous – / Making death masks of the guillotined nobility. / One moment, dignity: the next, a flying cutlet! / …As she arranged her poison peepshow (with / The sober ostentation that marks out policemen, / Hostesses, and, I’ve no doubt, the torturer): / As bloodied baskets tumbled in her lap, / So too it was that quiet Italians / Plumbed the inner man, the map. / “Our subject has been hanged. / The anatomy will begin.” How well they knew their trade, / The old anatomists - / Cutting fresh flowers from wards / Of plagues, and pestilence, and those irrevocably maimed: / Pregnant mothers, with hair as bright as straw: / Soldiers, lovers, those who had succumbed / With apoplexy in flagrante: / Now sliced apart with deft swift knives / Before their harvest might be claimed / By browning putrefaction: / Melting away like jelly in / The brassy Florentine sun. So fast the craftsman had to work, / Plundering at his transitory feast: / Sculpting, moulding, tinting as each cadaver, / Slippery as eels, succumbed to naked air / Charged with the zest and vice of incense. / Five hundred corpses (or two thousand) / No one knows how many the project once devoured. / Now several dozen waxworks are what’s left: / Eyes in a daze, as if in wait / For an early-morning cup of tea; / Or else, wide-shut, as though – because they’re flensed – / They’ve stumbled on the Bronx or Balham platform / And dropped their season ticket. Timeless commuters, / Are these; lamed and kept in aspic. Their butchers, meanwhile, nosed out what they’d sought. / Rationalists, seeking a moment of vindication, must like / Jesuits make their best use of rationed time. It is significant, / I think: their most brutal excoriation. / It concerns a young virgin. / They’d got her now. Every morsel of her, these men / Owned. They’d tried her, known her, had her, / Layer within layer. So much for the eternal feminine. / She sprawled, bereft of angels. Soon to come, and / Promised for the next act: maggots must burst, / Spontaneously formed, out of her forfeited lights / - As everybody said, and would say for the next / One hundred years, they should. Who came to loot, upon this silent ground? / What mortified potential, could its wreckage speak of? / Signor Fontana, head of those who / Came to scavenge truth amongst old meat, / Compelled by his voracious appetite, / For vindication he pressed on inside / And left in wild surmise. / Trying to shake free the lyricism of what was mute / (As one must always do, with natural worlds) / Through its seductive symmetries, / Promiscuous, beguiling as they are. / Inviting too much sense, as they must do, / And not too little. For such must be the way / Of all fortuitous, uncrafted forms. What could the pieces mean? / One principle was sound to guide the / Cutting of a blade, one uncorrupted article / Of faith: the search “for law-like regularities”. / Stealing what had been sanctified, in / A chancel of virgin sense, of / Unredeemed significance. Self-effacing, the men / Ravished, yet still with a gaze of awe and wonder, / Before the elements could ravage, what time itself / Must shortly pulp. Perhaps they looked for the / Soul; which Galen, greatest surgeon of / Antiquity, had adduced from blood vessels / Knotted in a cow. This time there was / Nothing. Still, it was no matter. / To understand a dream one must first know / The terrain of the commonplace. Think what instead they found: / Sepulchral polypi, that threw aside their fronds to / Embrace the sea. Banners and wreaths, arbours of / Bone, that seemed to tower and hold tight; fingers of / Flesh that reached like suckling mouths: or like / Soft rooted buds, eyeless, rapturous, blind. / Arteries and nerves, / As tall as funerary sycamores – / Cryptic and profligate as the rest of it was – / And here or there a foetus, compacted like a nut / Now destined never to unfurl, or to make good. But materialism, you know, brings its own magic – / Or at least, the allure of function. / Consider each mechanism, still, within your secret / Self: the valleys of hair attuned to make / The most delicious pleasure; / The sure, rococo poise to bones in a joint, / Unknown, until some act of violation / Brings their ensemble to the light. / Or a curve of enfolding form, voluptuous in its / Perfection, superfluous in its rightness, needless / In its subtlety, excessive in its resource – it does / Not need to be so good. Florid, / Exuberant almost…as if it’s not for us / Still less for the divine / Yet simply, for itself. I glimpse, through my mind’s eye, machines: / Strutting and proud upon dry dunes / Under a blazing noon. And so I’m back / Full-circle, with my own demise. / It is decay that makes us human, keeps us / Barely so. It’s not corporeal form. / All life is with us, huddled in / Degrees of smallness. / There is no infinite variety. / Instead, a requiem / Upon one note. March 2002 / Stephen Jackson
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 243,800 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.