Writing Challenge #6
 

I just got back into computer land today, so pardon the lack of a non photo project - I didn't have much time this week to be creative.





Go where your mind takes you!

I can only give credit for this to Hal.... If it sucks, that wasn't the intention, of course. *grins* For a writer of prose, this thread seems to inspire anything but.

Whose Eye?

What is art?
Like beauty
is it in the eye
of the beholder?
Or is it in the eye
of the creator?

Standing
at the cusp
of creation,
does the artist
create for himself
or for the viewer?

Perhaps
the key
is in how
the canvas
feels
about its burden.

What is art?
It is a feeling,
a sense
that there is more
to what you see
with the naked eye.

quite good.....Influenced or not

He paints the still nothingness...
As his grey life goes on

An inconsequential interpreter of life
The inspiration abounds in all he sees
The peacefulness of the ocean
The chaos of the inner mind
They come together in canvas and color
Each revealing a small part
Of an inconsequential interpreter
He is
An artist

This is my first time to try this out, so here it goes:

There I was, on the beach seeing a silloutte painting a frame and a stand around real life. Next to him sat framed artwork that he probably painted previously. I stumbled towards him and put my arm through the frame crashing into the sand. The silloutte looked down at me and said "Stop snorting the sand your messing up my work."

Life is a canvas
Awaiting the master's brush;
Genius Incarnate.

Thanks Tecoyah. *grins* I never thought I'd be writing poetry, lol.

There can be no Blank canvas
In my mind
All things form upon the tip of these fine hairs
Blanket the wind in misted clouds
Of sand
And take that which is Subject to heart
I will use this scene to make myself
Complete again
I am but the artist, Not as real as the Art

This is good... I laughed my ass off... Thanks

Thanks, I'm glad someone besides me finds it funny. :)

How many times have you seen something that would make a perfect picture but you, being the inartistic soul that you are, are unable to represent the scene with any form of justice and so you continue on in life; A little sadder than you were moments before? Cry for joy and not for the sadness that beauty brings. Whether or not you are able to represent beauty with any form of accuracy you owe it to the universe and your own beautiful aritistic soul to try. Try.

Cierah - that is so true! Especially for me, I have no artistic talent. Whatsoever.

Selling yourself a bit short there, amonkie. I just reread your "Sweet Dreams" poem and it was fantastic.

Slightly disjointed but here goes..

So there is a man that confines himself to staying "inside the box"... It doesn't bother him. He can see the wonders of the outside world, but he feels safer inside.. This "box" is his window... and he's content to observe the beauty all around.

frame no. 1:
a black rectangle behind which a zone of ocean appears to be fixed in time
frame no. 2:
an artist-shadow attached to the black frame by what appears to be his penis
frame no. 3:
multiplication of frames by placement of other paintings
frame no. 4:
a darkened blue rectangle
frame no. 5:
a lighter rectangle that displaces the darker in space
frame no. 6
a green rectangle that situates 1-5 as assemblage
frame no. 7
sequences of sentences that situate 1-6 as source of inspiration
frame no. 8
an elongated rectangle
oriented lengthwise
the limits of which difficult to fix because
it is constituted by the effects of scrolling up and down
frame no. 9
a white rectangle
frame no. 10
a series of sentences:

frame no. 1:
a black rectangle behind which a zone of ocean appears to be fixed in time
frame no. 2:
an artist-shadow attached to the black frame by what appears to be his penis
frame no. 3:
multiplication of frames by placement of other paintings
frame no. 4:
a darkened blue rectangle
frame no. 5:
a lighter rectangle that displaces the darker in space
frame no. 6
a green rectangle that situates 1-5 as assemblage
frame no. 7
sequences of sentences that situate 1-6 as source of inspiration
frame no. 8
an elongated rectangle
oriented lengthwise
the limits of which difficult to fix because
it is constituted by the effects of scrolling up and down
frame no. 9
a white rectangle within which you find
frame no. 10
a series of sentences

frame no. 1:
a black rectangle behind which a zone of ocean appears to be fixed in time
frame no. 2:
an artist-shadow attached to the black frame by what appears to be his penis
frame no. 3:
multiplication of frames by placement of other paintings
frame no. 4:
a darkened blue rectangle
frame no. 5:
a lighter rectangle that displaces the darker in space
frame no. 6
a green rectangle that situates 1-5 as assemblage
frame no. 7
sequences of sentences that situate 1-6 as source of inspiration
frame no. 8
an elongated rectangle
oriented lengthwise
the limits of which difficult to fix because
it is constituted by the effects of scrolling up and down
frame no. 9
a white rectangle within which you find
frame no. 10
a series of sentences

frame no. 11
the shadow of myself sitting before the white rectangle typing
attached by what appears to be my arms
frame no. 12
a white frame placed around the image above
such that it appears immobilized in time

I decide to capture the world of my eye
Set up my supplies, poised brush ready
As the strokes go, the world I see
doesn't seem to be what I paint
Instead I see a blue wave of halls
Memories sparked unconsciously
Again I begin, this time determined
Yet again, the end does not match outside
Every time, the scenery doesn't change
But the eye of the brush sweeps along
a different picture in mind

pile of dead water, washing this way and that
Frightening and empty, a dead man's hand
A stilted perception, a stunted paint brush
Hollow, the opposite of life, superimposed
Over a wall of death, leads one to the conclusion
That the weather must turn, one of these days
Before the ordinary rain comes, and the
Summer tension subsides for a while.
The seas always gives up its dead, oh
Thats what they say, or, so they say
Little fishes, little fishes
Still have sharp teeth
Your just made of metal
I turn you at angles
To look at what you see
But you dont have eyes
And you dont mean anything
Youre just fucking dead
You were never alive.

the picture

this is my soul
painting a picture of non-existance
catching every eb and flow of a life that will never exist
creating a world from a memory
creating a world that is picture perfect

MARVIN DRAKE 2005

painting reality--the futile intellectual construct that one's hand can adequately capture the splendor captured by one's mind.

Windows within black stand
of ocean, sky, sun, and sand
vividity is the view of it's sea
a moment in time born unfree
diaphanous canvas black framed
view portrayed stays unnamed
shadows in time's ice shaped
encased frozen never escaped

Matching the body that tethered his soul,
he painted a frame that restrained the sea.
Ebony strokes forming finite demands...
Suppressing the wild things that roar to be free.

Oh WOW! Great new ones - and welcome Rainyshoes! you last two lines are still echoing in my head....

Thank you...I really like this place and figured I oughta go ahead and get my feet wet (or shoes rainy, as it were :D)

Life is in the eyes of those who would see it...

beautiful winter day
my feet in the snow
snow covered beach
capturing
what i can
from this day

i can tell by my shadow
that i'm real
the sun is shining on me

at times i'm not sure i'm real
just don't feel particularly valued

but how many people
bother
to capture
the perfect day
like this
or just don't pay attention to it

car ads
call for drivers
not passengers in life
bunch of people in action
they want

i guess
all looking for attention
but everyone too active
to notice each other

i see you
i see them
you won't be forgotten

extend me the same courtesy
on this day

Emptiness inside me echoes with the crash of waves
Cold aloofness in the face of beauty
Brush strokes continue without my volition
My eyes caress all I have created
I see the beauty that others admire
Could these splashes of color and life
Have come from inside such empty coldness?
Hope inspired; continue to paint
Seeing proof that though I can not envision
I am more than two dimensions after all

I paint a scene,
Though I am painted.
Connection seen.
I am the ocean.

Domino stacked.
It falls without fail.
A holy pact.
I choose my purpose.

(Hey. I tried a new form on this one. I thought it might help to express my points in a more abstract way to limit myself a little more, but I fear I have written jibberish. Any thoughts?)

The canvas begins blank
Parent’s hands add the first traces
The masterpiece gains form

First thoughts, experiences, and sights
Are mirrored on the canvas’s surface
The masterpiece gains depth

Outside hands connect the lines
Eyes now peer back at those looking in
The masterpiece gains identity

The true artist’s hand emerges
Skillfully, the portrait is at last finished
The masterpiece gains definition

Colors fade and lines blur
But spectators have never given more notice
The masterpiece gains a place in history