Posts tagged art

laughingsquid posted an installation featuring the likeness of unlikely artist Ferdinand Cheval. (Link here)

Ferdinand Cheval (1836-1924) spent 33 years painstakingly building the creation above, Le Palais idéal. Here is a quote of his about this awe-inspiring piece of artistic architecture:

"I was walking very fast when my foot caught on something that sent me stumbling a few meters away, I wanted to know the cause. In a dream I had built a palace, a castle or caves, I cannot express it well… I told no one about it for fear of being ridiculed and I felt ridiculous myself. Then fifteen years later, when I had almost forgotten my dream, when I wasn’t thinking of it at all, my foot reminded me of it. My foot tripped on a stone that almost made me fall. I wanted to know what it was… It was a stone of such a strange shape that I put it in my pocket to admire it at my ease. The next day, I went back to the same place. I found more stones, even more beautiful, I gathered them together on the spot and was overcome with delight… It’s a sandstone shaped by water and hardened by the power of time. It becomes as hard as pebbles. It represents a sculpture so strange that it is impossible for man to imitate, it represents any kind of animal, any kind of caricature."

"I said to myself: since Nature is willing to do the sculpture, I will do the masonry and the architecture…"

The building consists of cement, lime and mortar. He wanted to eventually be buried in his creation, which was forbidden in France. He went on to spend another 8 years to construct a mausoleum in which to be buried.

The last picture is of the stones he originally tripped over, the inspiration for this lifelong labor of artistic determination.

Antiquing afternoon.

Snapshot of newest project: Skittish

Snapshot of newest project: Skittish

Hot town, summer in the city. Back of my neck getting dirt and gritty.

Hot town, summer in the city. Back of my neck getting dirt and gritty.

Branch.
Garden twine on canvas.

laughingsquid:

An Incredible Anamorphic Portrait Installation of French Artist Ferdinand Cheval by Bernard Pras

Just love this installation. It is made even more powerful if the viewer is aware of Cheval’s artistic history. For 33 years he picked up stones while on his route as a mailman, and brought them home to build his “Ideal Palace.” I think I might dedicate an entire post to him because it is so interesting!

laughingsquid:

An Incredible Anamorphic Portrait Installation of French Artist Ferdinand Cheval by Bernard Pras

Just love this installation. It is made even more powerful if the viewer is aware of Cheval’s artistic history. For 33 years he picked up stones while on his route as a mailman, and brought them home to build his “Ideal Palace.” I think I might dedicate an entire post to him because it is so interesting!

"Keep your face always to the sunshine,
and the shadows will fall behind you.”

-Walt Whitman

"Keep your face always to the sunshine,

and the shadows will fall behind you.”

-Walt Whitman

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

-Edgar Allen Poe, The Raven

Rawr.
heybeast12:

365 Critters - Day 206 - Lion Man - Darci - Norman, OK
Follow this project on Hey Beast Studio’s Facebook.

Rawr.

heybeast12:

365 Critters - Day 206 - Lion Man - Darci - Norman, OK

Follow this project on Hey Beast Studio’s Facebook.

I love this.


Christian Dior 2007 Spring Collection 

jacobvanloon:

Sergey Mikhaylovich Prokudin-Gorsky (Russia) | Early 20th century color photography

top: Armenian Woman c. 1910
bottom: Dinner During Haying 1909

Breast Feeding at the Blue Mosque
By Ravi Shankar

Hidden from a queue to bag shoes a woman nurses a childunder a wool scarf in the shadow two fluted minarets castpitched towards incessant sun, a necessity somehow an insultto sharia law, no matter what sustenance a lemonwedgeof breast, God’s own, yields, puckering a tiny mouthuntil bright eyes glaze to doll loll. Fairly alien to ponderraw biology of milk conveyed by ducts lined with capillaries,made from pouring stuff of stars: nourishment that manifestsminerals for bone from pulsing light.Too close to the slickheat pushing outbetween the legs of nearly every woman not your wifebut her as well? How could it be that her very being derivessolely from her relation to you, that she could have no valuein the calculus but to function as temptation, or its dome-blue corollary, disappointment? No cover covers upthose integers holding the place of zeroes, Iznik tiles or after-life virgins. Ostrich eggs on chandeliers don’t dissuade spiders.If the fear of the Lord is not the beginning of our wisdom,then La ilah ha il Allah is a breast in a mouth, else nothing is.
Source for the poem: The Chronicle
Source for the art

Breast Feeding at the Blue Mosque

By Ravi Shankar

Hidden from a queue to bag shoes a woman nurses a child
under a wool scarf in the shadow two fluted minarets cast
pitched towards incessant sun, a necessity somehow an insult
to sharia law, no matter what sustenance a lemonwedge
of breast, God’s own, yields, puckering a tiny mouth
until bright eyes glaze to doll loll. Fairly alien to ponder
raw biology of milk conveyed by ducts lined with capillaries,
made from pouring stuff of stars: nourishment that manifests
minerals for bone from pulsing light.
Too close to the slickheat pushing out
between the legs of nearly every woman not your wife
but her as well? How could it be that her very being derives
solely from her relation to you, that she could have no value
in the calculus but to function as temptation, or its dome-
blue corollary, disappointment? No cover covers up
those integers holding the place of zeroes, Iznik tiles or after-
life virgins. Ostrich eggs on chandeliers don’t dissuade spiders.
If the fear of the Lord is not the beginning of our wisdom,
then La ilah ha il Allah is a breast in a mouth, else nothing is.

Source for the poem: The Chronicle

Source for the art

Tiger by Alec Derwent Hope
At noon thepaper tigers roar — Miroslav HolubThe paper tigers roar at noon; The sun is hot, the sun is high. They roar in chorus, not in tune, Their plaintive, savage hunting cry.O, when you hear them, stop your ears And clench your lids and bite your tongue. The harmless paper tiger bears Strong fascination for the young.His forest is the busy street; His dens the forum and the mart; He drinks no blood, he tastes no meat: He riddles and corrupts the heart.But when the dusk begins to creep From tree to tree, from door to door, The jungle tiger wakes from sleep And utters his authentic roar.It bursts the night and shakes the starsTill one breaks blazing from the sky;Then listen! If to meet it soarsYour heart’s reverberating cry,My child, then put aside your fear: Unbar the door and walk outside! The real tiger waits you there; His golden eyes shall be your guide.And, should he spare you in his wrath,The world and all the worlds are yours;And should he leap thejungle pathAnd clasp you with his bloody jaws,Then say, as his divine embrace Destroys the mortal parts of you: I too am of that royal race Who do what we are born to do.
Tiger by Alec Derwent Hope
At noon thepaper tigers roar 
— Miroslav Holub

The paper tigers roar at noon; 
The sun is hot, the sun is high. 
They roar in chorus, not in tune, 
Their plaintive, savage hunting cry.

O, when you hear them, stop your ears 
And clench your lids and bite your tongue. 
The harmless paper tiger bears 
Strong fascination for the young.

His forest is the busy street; 
His dens the forum and the mart; 
He drinks no blood, he tastes no meat: 
He riddles and corrupts the heart.

But when the dusk begins to creep 
From tree to tree, from door to door, 
The jungle tiger wakes from sleep 
And utters his authentic roar.

It bursts the night and shakes the stars
Till one breaks blazing from the sky;
Then listen! If to meet it soars
Your heart’s reverberating cry,

My child, then put aside your fear: 
Unbar the door and walk outside! 
The real tiger waits you there; 
His golden eyes shall be your guide.

And, should he spare you in his wrath,
The world and all the worlds are yours;
And should he leap thejungle path
And clasp you with his bloody jaws,

Then say, as his divine embrace 
Destroys the mortal parts of you: 
I too am of that royal race 
Who do what we are born to do.