art
The best relationship art depicts the highs and lows of the authentic couple.
Interview with Georgia O'Keeffe. (Or regarding art).
Interview with Georgia O'Keeffe. (Or regarding art). The authenticity of various characters, could be, what most attracts my attention, so joyful beings that the circumstances that lead their existence provoke curious thoughts and incredible ideas; from geniuses, scientists, artists of various kinds, perhaps teachers or even uneducated beings. For this reason, I have decided to venture to the state of New Mexico, and thus, visit a famous artist who has more than caught my attention, the aforementioned person is the celebrated Georgia O'Keeffe, whom maintains a warm home in a small town called "Abiquiú". I should comment that the proportions and figures of such a place have an incomparable beauty, differentiating the banality and frivolity of the neighboring cities, as if such mountains surpassed the artificial constructions with a magnificent factor of natural bestiality. Last week, I questioned the mentioned character on the phone to find out if it would be appropriate for me to pay her a visit, although this idea was not a problem due to the warmth of this person's personality, however, I could see that her enthusiasm was not strictly aimed at the excitement of the event.
By Richard Wilcox5 years ago in Humans
The Oriental Market
There were no real signs in the oriental market. They were never printed on thick cardstock and inserted in a neat metal frame, or even typed up and taped to a shelf. It could almost always be assumed that any produce sign had been made by ripping apart some random cardboard box nearby and scribbling Chinese and an English translation on it in thick sharpie.
By MarySandra Do5 years ago in Humans
The Vagabond’s Song
“Been talked out out loud, for millennia...” “Babe I’ll be, blinded by enemies...” The mysterious traveler sings quietly to herself “it’s the underground...” She rounds a corner onto an antiquated canal bridge, polka dot umbrella swinging in one hand, little black book tucked under the other.
By Stanzi Hope Wellington5 years ago in Humans
The Misrepresentation of a Wild Thing
The man painted himself in all the wrong colours. He drowned his thoughts in whiskey and found his mirky likeness in the bottom of a glass. He got in quarrels and woke in foggy mornings, with a mirror of black and blue remember me bye’s, hiding his true features behind their inky stains. He rarely bathed, sitting in a bath seemed like a rotten thing to him, his black hair course and matted against his skin like some unwanted dog, though this man had house and home. Apathy soaked the room, drenching into the curtains and the walls, staining their colours grey. That same shade dripped its colours into the foundations of the house in tiny little percussions, like rain that causes the wood to rot and mellow, so that as he walked across the floorboards it fawned beneath his weight and he heard those same doubts creaking back at him, as if they were a real thing, a noise of the world and not a product of his own imagining. You see our man had fallen into the worst of sicknesses, the belief that he was a worthless thing.
By Marius Van Den Berg5 years ago in Humans
The Restoration
Nina leaned over the sink with her nose nearly touching the mirror and carefully penciled in her upper lash line. The sickly fluorescent lights of the 24 hour gym were doing her under eye bags absolutely no favors. She startled as the locker room door suddenly slammed and the pencil scraped her eye.
By Erin Gildea5 years ago in Humans
The Book on the Bench
It was just sitting there, alone on the bench's wooden slats, almost invisible in the grey November afternoon. I didn't even notice it until I sat down. I recognized it at once, of course; I have had so many of those little books tucked into pockets and bags over the years, with their smooth black covers and their snappy elastics, and the page-mark peeking out one end or another. I had come there to think, but suddenly all the greater issues were brushed away by the smaller. Who had left it? Did they know they had lost it? I jerked my head up and scanned the garden, looking for someone nearby, someone searching, anyone whom the notebook might belong to. But it was a cold day in the Tuileries when only a wandering and preoccupied soul would linger, and the few people there were only shapes in the distance.
By Valerie Thibodaux5 years ago in Humans
A Study in Provenance
From up close, the paint strokes came out as individual colors and shapes, each with its own deliberate intent. Taking a few steps back, Byron Mar’s unwavering gaze could nearly startle a viewer. His intensity in real life matched how his painterly circles often found him, scribbling, arguing, becoming consumed by any one of the artists and intellectuals around him. Funny how perception plays in a piece like this, all those actions taken years ago creating a sort of portal for the present to look through. A screaming child interrupted Andi’s conference with the artist’s self-portrait. She whipped her head around to see the child and relief- it was just Lucius. He made a face as he approached her on the unwelcoming museum bench to face Mar’s self portrait.
By Madison Kelley5 years ago in Humans
