paint into ink (original) (raw)

(draw a line)

	[15 Apr 2006\|03:39pm]
I found some interesting artwork here.

(draw a line)

(gift from fater	[09 Apr 2005\|03:43pm]
[ mood \| uncreative ] lowlife by naoto hattorisi hope you start writing!also, _fever_ if you are still interested in this community, do you want to alternate weeks posting pictures, with you posting one next week? otherwise ill post them, hopefully more people join :)

(draw a line)

A Change.	[18 Feb 2005\|08:46pm]
[ mood \| quirky ] Recently, djfetus granted me permission to work with this community. I will post a picture every week, and hopefully the response will start to grow from what it was. Instead of only taking pictures from artofinspiration.com, I thought it would be interesting to use pictures that are more political/real at times. The picture I have chosen for this upcoming week:"In Sven's Kitchen"Kevin ByrdIf you have any suggestions of your own as to how we could get this community back on its feet, please feel free to comment. If you have a poem to keep this photo company, please post it. It can be written in any shade of relevance you choose. :D

A Change.

[18 Feb 2005|08:46pm]

[ mood | quirky ] Recently,

djfetus granted me permission to work with this community. I will post a picture every week, and hopefully the response will start to grow from what it was. Instead of only taking pictures from artofinspiration.com, I thought it would be interesting to use pictures that are more political/real at times. The picture I have chosen for this upcoming week: kevinbyrd

"In Sven's Kitchen"Kevin ByrdIf you have any suggestions of your own as to how we could get this community back on its feet, please feel free to comment. If you have a poem to keep this photo company, please post it. It can be written in any shade of relevance you choose. :D

(2 write a poem | draw a line)

	[20 May 2004\|03:11pm]
hello, i'm new to the community -a little about myself - my favorite author is yukio mishima. i'm reading bits and pieces of a lot of books: death in midsummer and other stories, story of O, a book on leonardo da vinci, les chants de maldoror, EDIE (bio), Mr. Nice (bio), Mein Kampf, and i'm trying to get the novella of Truman Capote - breakfast at tiffany's. i 'm into drawing and collage - started this january. photography was a three month phase. you can see my stuff on this link:http://plool.dyndns.org/gallery/?cid=10comments and criticism are welcomed and can be posted under the pics. i read them and consider them. thanx - a grace

[20 May 2004|03:11pm]

hello, i'm new to the community -a little about myself - my favorite author is yukio mishima. i'm reading bits and pieces of a lot of books: death in midsummer and other stories, story of O, a book on leonardo da vinci, les chants de maldoror, EDIE (bio), Mr. Nice (bio), Mein Kampf, and i'm trying to get the novella of Truman Capote - breakfast at tiffany's. i 'm into drawing and collage - started this january. photography was a three month phase. you can see my stuff on this link:http://plool.dyndns.org/gallery/?cid=10comments and criticism are welcomed and can be posted under the pics. i read them and consider them. thanx - a grace

(4 write a poem | draw a line)

new painting	[23 Feb 2004\|06:58pm]
[ mood \| full ] Facing the Light by De Es Schwertberger

(draw a line)

The Art Work	[04 Feb 2004\|07:05pm]
[ mood \| creative ] I went in search of the perfect wedding present for my wife to be. She loved the glass abstract I got her for her birthday. I asked myself what could I possible get that would be better than that abstract glass object d' art? As I walked by an Art gallery, a blue elephant abstract caught my eye. Well, I said to myself, it wasn't exactly glass. However, it did have the look of a painting of an abstract glass object d' art. The elephant appeared to have blue feathers that weren't feathers. The tusk was almost white instead of blue. The elephant appeared to be almost heavenly with the white feathers that weren't feathers alluminating from behind and showing prominently on the elephant's left side. I was hooked. Quickly, I entered the shop and spoke with the owner, indicating that picture that I was so taken by. I wanted to be absolutely certain that no one could beat me to it. I paid and left, walking quickly, excitedly to my car. Very carefully I placed the picture in the trunk. Soon I was home and the picture was safely hidden in the recesses of my attic in a plastic container where no mouse could enter within. 2/4/04 copyrightTPKyteroo(Please post more pictures! I will try to post every other week. Thanks!)

The Art Work

[04 Feb 2004|07:05pm]

[ **mood** |

creative ] I went in search of the perfect wedding present for my wife to be. She loved the glass abstract I got her for her birthday. I asked myself what could I possible get that would be better than that abstract glass object d' art? As I walked by an Art gallery, a blue elephant abstract caught my eye. Well, I said to myself, it wasn't exactly glass. However, it did have the look of a painting of an abstract glass object d' art. The elephant appeared to have blue feathers that weren't feathers. The tusk was almost white instead of blue. The elephant appeared to be almost heavenly with the white feathers that weren't feathers alluminating from behind and showing prominently on the elephant's left side. I was hooked. Quickly, I entered the shop and spoke with the owner, indicating that picture that I was so taken by. I wanted to be absolutely certain that no one could beat me to it. I paid and left, walking quickly, excitedly to my car. Very carefully I placed the picture in the trunk. Soon I was home and the picture was safely hidden in the recesses of my attic in a plastic container where no mouse could enter within. 2/4/04 copyrightTPKyteroo(Please post more pictures! I will try to post every other week. Thanks!)

(draw a line)

my head hurts	[20 Jan 2004\|08:32pm]
[ mood \| PAIN ] Castor by Robert Venosa

(draw a line)

Scherzo	[14 Jan 2004\|01:01pm]
[ mood \| content ] A lonely man sits on the park bench with a violin in his hands; he is held within his own inconizance about the workings (trappings) of what a meaningful life is. At home - which is nothing more than a two room apartment in Queens - he has stacks of books and magazines which cover the walls and touch the ceiling like eager Incas calling to the God of truth. With hands that match the leather bindings of the oldest editions he turns pages in the dark. His eyes are all but gone, but he doesn't need them anymore. Each page has been read upon a thousand occasions and though the words may not be present the images were still vibrant. Sitting in the cold he plays his music - so beautiful, so tender - fighting the pain of arthritis. Smirking at those who pass he seems to be laughing at what each one of us is deep inside. Or rather what we are not for as this old man with a two room apartment, a violin, and many books, this old man who can afford nothing more to eat than chicken soup and baloney, this old man with not a dime to his name nor single being whom he may call his family, as this man sees it each one of us is empty and wanting in our vain pursuites of success and happiness. All one needs is the sky, the birds, some imagination and music... according to this man.

Scherzo

[14 Jan 2004|01:01pm]

[ **mood** |

content ] A lonely man sits on the park bench with a violin in his hands; he is held within his own inconizance about the workings (trappings) of what a meaningful life is. At home - which is nothing more than a two room apartment in Queens - he has stacks of books and magazines which cover the walls and touch the ceiling like eager Incas calling to the God of truth. With hands that match the leather bindings of the oldest editions he turns pages in the dark. His eyes are all but gone, but he doesn't need them anymore. Each page has been read upon a thousand occasions and though the words may not be present the images were still vibrant. Sitting in the cold he plays his music - so beautiful, so tender - fighting the pain of arthritis. Smirking at those who pass he seems to be laughing at what each one of us is deep inside. Or rather what we are not for as this old man with a two room apartment, a violin, and many books, this old man who can afford nothing more to eat than chicken soup and baloney, this old man with not a dime to his name nor single being whom he may call his family, as this man sees it each one of us is empty and wanting in our vain pursuites of success and happiness. All one needs is the sky, the birds, some imagination and music... according to this man.

(draw a line)

snow day!	[06 Jan 2004\|01:19pm]
[ mood \| melancholy ] Scherzo by Alexander Spivak

(draw a line)

Gustrow Memento	[03 Jan 2004\|10:11pm]
"You know, you don't have to be so modest."Outside the clouds were rolling. Illusory vapors of freedom; we all talk about eating clouds but when they actually touch our lips...nothing is there.Inside her skin lay, damaged packaging, flaccid and hanging on the window ledge. She was trying to watch the sky because empty baggage like her thinks there's meaning in clouds, but she was naked and she didn't want the wind to see her breasts.Her skeleton tried to tell her again "You don't have to be so modest. You're nothing without me, and nobody cares about nothing" But she wouldn't hear because all her desperate modesty, her floppy attempts at concealing her sagging parts were really her way of deciving herself into believing she still had something like an ego. She was nothing without her skeleton. Her skeleton however, apart from flesh, in the dry heat of a summer protected by rolling clouds, was immortal. She danced by the window, prodding the desire of a beautiful girl who could no longer move. There was a flute and the skeleton thought to play it, music for her nimble, able feet. The wind through the window served as lungs; the music was sharp hot searing the limp doll of flesh. Her eyes welled with tears and all the salts left her body, leaving her naked, immobile, dry.As the skeleton danced, and the girl cried, the unfed bones grew brittle and broke apart until all that was left in the room was a disjoined girl and the view out the window of rolling clouds dissipating into the atmosphere.

Gustrow Memento

[03 Jan 2004|10:11pm]

"You know, you don't have to be so modest."Outside the clouds were rolling. Illusory vapors of freedom; we all talk about eating clouds but when they actually touch our lips...nothing is there.Inside her skin lay, damaged packaging, flaccid and hanging on the window ledge. She was trying to watch the sky because empty baggage like her thinks there's meaning in clouds, but she was naked and she didn't want the wind to see her breasts.Her skeleton tried to tell her again "You don't have to be so modest. You're nothing without me, and nobody cares about nothing" But she wouldn't hear because all her desperate modesty, her floppy attempts at concealing her sagging parts were really her way of deciving herself into believing she still had something like an ego. She was nothing without her skeleton. Her skeleton however, apart from flesh, in the dry heat of a summer protected by rolling clouds, was immortal. She danced by the window, prodding the desire of a beautiful girl who could no longer move. There was a flute and the skeleton thought to play it, music for her nimble, able feet. The wind through the window served as lungs; the music was sharp hot searing the limp doll of flesh. Her eyes welled with tears and all the salts left her body, leaving her naked, immobile, dry.As the skeleton danced, and the girl cried, the unfed bones grew brittle and broke apart until all that was left in the room was a disjoined girl and the view out the window of rolling clouds dissipating into the atmosphere.

(draw a line)

Remote Control	[03 Jan 2004\|09:39pm]
This is the way we do it in Hollywood!The man was drunk. He looked like Janice Joplin. I could hear her, rusty, crusty, warbling out his throat, maybe even caught a glimpse of hand or was it tongue? He had a bristly face, wires of hair poking out, color fluctuating between black grey and vomit. He had purple mirror sunglasses and he was shouting "This is the way we do it in Hollywood!"The bald woman looked blankly at him, face stretched square like a TV, wrinkled white head strobing images across his Janice Joplin sunglasses. He was throbbing back and forth, bobbing in his interminable cold like a broken pelvis, wheezing rancid giggles at the blank eyes of the bald woman. She was holding a dream in her hand. This is the way we do it in Hollywood!There was a car crash on her forehead and the gusts of overdone flames billowed down her flabs of cheek. Behind her the sky exploded into streetlights and suddenly she remembered that memory she hadof a movie she once sawwhere a man kissed a womanand their hearts exploded into stars.This is the way we do it in Hollywood the drunk man shouted, validating her emptiness.

Remote Control

[03 Jan 2004|09:39pm]

**This is the way we do it in Hollywood!**The man was drunk. He looked like Janice Joplin. I could hear her, rusty, crusty, warbling out his throat, maybe even caught a glimpse of hand or was it tongue? He had a bristly face, wires of hair poking out, color fluctuating between black grey and vomit. He had purple mirror sunglasses and he was shouting "This is the way we do it in Hollywood!"The bald woman looked blankly at him, face stretched square like a TV, wrinkled white head strobing images across his Janice Joplin sunglasses. He was throbbing back and forth, bobbing in his interminable cold like a broken pelvis, wheezing rancid giggles at the blank eyes of the bald woman. She was holding a dream in her hand. **This is the way we do it in Hollywood!**There was a car crash on her forehead and the gusts of overdone flames billowed down her flabs of cheek. Behind her the sky exploded into streetlights and suddenly she remembered that memory she hadof a movie she once sawwhere a man kissed a womanand their hearts exploded into stars.This is the way we do it in Hollywood the drunk man shouted, validating her emptiness.

(1 write a poem | draw a line)

update!	[24 Dec 2003\|01:58am]
[ mood \| jet lagged ] Enlightenment by Sabin Boikinov

(1 write a poem | draw a line)

Remote Control by Laurie Lipton	[10 Nov 2003\|11:24pm]
[ mood \| tired ] needs revision20:16A little bit of manipulationcan turn your eyes into mountainswith little crags and crevicesin which to hide your ego.Stripes run the roommake a pretty cage in which you can place your heartwhen you set it down- just for a moment-to wash your dirty towelswith a clean conscience.Laying here on your sheets of symbolismon the bed you made yourselfnot really understanding what it meant.It was the woman at Ikea who told youthat the colors would go nicelywith your lopsided smile.Slippery black, like Satan's silk,my slip strap falls from my shouldergently grasing the teeth marksthat your perfect dentistry leftupon my aging fleshin a moment determined to be passionateby all who have judged the act.Look through your magazinesfind some new ailmentsome shiny shortcomingto hold over my head.A three dollar box of blonde bombshellgoes a cold hard milewhen explaining to youthat gender rules would dictatethat I should get the pink mugwith my tablespoon of sugarand third of a cup of milk.not really finished yet

Remote Control by Laurie Lipton

[10 Nov 2003|11:24pm]

[ **mood** |

tired ] *needs revision*20:16A little bit of manipulationcan turn your eyes into mountainswith little crags and crevicesin which to hide your ego.Stripes run the roommake a pretty cage in which you can place your heartwhen you set it down- just for a moment-to wash your dirty towelswith a clean conscience.Laying here on your sheets of symbolismon the bed you made yourselfnot really understanding what it meant.It was the woman at Ikea who told youthat the colors would go nicelywith your lopsided smile.Slippery black, like Satan's silk,my slip strap falls from my shouldergently grasing the teeth marksthat your perfect dentistry leftupon my aging fleshin a moment determined to be passionateby all who have judged the act.Look through your magazinesfind some new ailmentsome shiny shortcomingto hold over my head.A three dollar box of blonde bombshellgoes a cold hard milewhen explaining to youthat gender rules would dictatethat I should get the pink mugwith my tablespoon of sugarand third of a cup of milk.*not really finished yet*

(2 write a poem | draw a line)

	[08 Nov 2003\|07:44pm]
[ mood \| lonely ] Even though separte from much factors, from years of pain and misfortune to still be this together and knowing the reason why.All though fate glimmers otherwise, someone will push the off button on the remote to signify to show this love show has ended. The cancerous effects this hard life has put them through, to still awaken side by side eachothers as a new awaken being, being as one...is sacred

[08 Nov 2003|07:44pm]

[ **mood** |

lonely ] Even though separte from much factors, from years of pain and misfortune to still be this together and knowing the reason why.All though fate glimmers otherwise, someone will push the off button on the remote to signify to show this love show has ended. The cancerous effects this hard life has put them through, to still awaken side by side eachothers as a new awaken being, being as one...is sacred

(draw a line)

The reconciliation of Fire and Water	[13 Oct 2003\|09:50am]
they didn't care anymore, the fire and the water.they were tired of fightingtired of so much energy, wasted.steam...it was overwhelming, it was all they ever did was steam. so they stopped. and sublimity was found, the sublimity of fire and water.

(3 write a poem | draw a line)

next picture:	[07 Oct 2003\|09:18pm]
[ mood \| depressed ] The Reconciliation of Fire and Water by Donna Balma

(1 write a poem | draw a line)

Story by Artur Golacki	[02 Oct 2003\|06:16pm]
parallel universesworlds identicaljumbled DNA, but the society would not tell you that.they speak their foreign dialect their grey clothes and grey eyes and cold skies and shallow heartshiding the truth behind their Godly visionsvisions of the tranquility we refuse to seewave patterns in the sky, tranquility hallucinations.but maybe it is our own society,painted and plastic and breakable,which is the phantasm of the universe.

Story by Artur Golacki

[02 Oct 2003|06:16pm]

parallel universesworlds identicaljumbled DNA, but the society would not tell you that.they speak their foreign dialect their grey clothes and grey eyes and cold skies and shallow heartshiding the truth behind their Godly visionsvisions of the tranquility we refuse to seewave patterns in the sky, tranquility hallucinations.but maybe it is our own society,painted and plastic and breakable,which is the phantasm of the universe.

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