View allAll Photos Tagged Metaphors
You show the lights that stop me turn to stone....
And so I tell myself that I'll be strong
And dreaming when they're gone
www.youtube.com/watch?v=0NKUpo_xKyQ
A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life.
The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.
A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening....
If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home.
Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.....
― Hermann Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte
© All rights reserved Anna Kwa. Please do not use this image on websites, blogs or any other media without my explicit written permission
At least once a week I come in contact with the perfect subject for a portrait shoot at an imperfect time or place. Happened the other day with a woman in a grocery store. Not a fashion model, but someone with a genuinely stunning look. I've become emboldened over the years about asking people to pose. But approaching strange women in the produce isle is a bridge I have not yet crossed. It's not just about getting bounced because of store policy. I'm not even sure if there is such a policy (if not probably should be). For me it's all about giving people their space and not wanting to step across the boundary between eccentric and weird (very fine line there). Different circumstances yield different results. I came upon this girl at a historic reenactment. In this environment photography is more then welcome, even encouraged. In fact I spent a couple hours approaching countless strangers to shoot portraits. Never turned down once, though it took some cajoling along the way. I noticed this girl sitting on the edge of a group. She was wearing a bonnet to cap off a period costume. Absolutely adorable but in a forlorn sort of way. I sensed shyness and feared scaring her off as I might a fawn in the woods if I made a sudden movement. I introduced myself to the group and started shooting some portraits from the other side. I hoped to put the girl at ease seeing me work with the others. Finally it was her turn; I didn't even have to walk through different poses. Her look was perfect, just as I found her. I stopped her just as she began to pull a tendril hair away from her face. Shyness for sure, but with the gaze of all-knowing eyes.
Seems the world is hanging by a metaphor. It occurred to me today that there are so many in this photo: History, present, future. And a sense of loss.
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La métaphore met l'accent sur les similitudes entre deux choses différentes, et le symbolisme est une technique ancienne par laquelle l'imagerie est utilisée pour représenter une idée. En utilisant ces outils, nous sommes en mesure d'aller au-delà de ce qui est immédiatement visible et de communiquer notre concept via des niveaux de signification.
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Metaphor emphasizes similarities between two different things, and symbolism is an ancient technique by which imagery is used to represent an idea. By using these tools, we are enabled to go beyond what is immediately seen and communicate our concept via layers of meaning.
Crédit : © Leigh Schneider
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Castoff yard sale doll appears lost in despair as it contemplates an uncertain future. In my mind it's a poor bride living out its final days, still dressed in the tattered remnants of the happiest day of its life. All of that a distant memory in a world that left it behind. My memory often fails, but is still able to spin fanciful backstories for inanimate objects. Abandoned dolls fascinate me, both visually, but also in terms of the sadness that is often conveyed in their facial expressions. Could simply be the circumstances in which I find them, or the camera angles, or the sense of abject loneliness and neglect they engender. I'm sure this was once some little girl's pride and joy. Then she grew up and herself became a bride. The doll was left behind along with the girl's childhood. And now years later it surfaces before my lens for one final moment in the light.
permettre au sujet de se dévoiler en nous tenant ni trop près, ni trop loin ...mais à la juste distance...
its my personal opinion that comic book heroes and professional sports are only the unspoken but socially sanctioned bastions of latent homoerotic idolatry.
The Pigeon River, an enigmatic artery cutting through the rugged terrain near Grand Portage, beckons with an eerie tranquility on this partly cloudy day. Its waters, a chaotic blend of serenity and untamed power, reflect the dichotomy of this borderland. The scene, an intoxicating cocktail of nature's whimsy and man's insignificance, drags you into a frenzied dance between awe and fear.
Here, the river's relentless flow carves a path through the landscape, a metaphor for life's unyielding march. The clouds above play a psychedelic game, casting shadows that morph the river's surface from moment to moment. It's a theatre where light and shadow perform a perpetual ballet, illuminating the soul of this place.
In this snapshot, the Pigeon River isn't just water; it's a living, breathing entity that defies definition, much like the American spirit that courses through its veins.
a quiet walk in the bustling streets, a crisp hat, and the tailored jacket of a man who doesn’t know there’s an extra guest tagging along. the streets buzz with life, but here’s a silent comedy, a playful moment frozen in time. the paper figure stands in contrast to the rich textures of the man’s coat, a reminder that life often sprinkles humor in the most unassuming places.
This forlorn little cemetery statue stopped me in my tracks recently. It struck me as the perfect metaphor for how I feel lately. Completely buried in a never-ending avalanche of bad news. I am a news junkie at heart, but even I've had to limit my exposure in an often futile effort to maintain mental wellness. The delayed outcome of the presidential election, coupled with the annoying and unnecessary delay in transition, have only served to punctuate an already awful year. And meanwhile the pandemic rages on. I was thinking the other day just how conditioned I've become to a daily onslaught of bad news. I recall the early days of the pandemic and the anxiety attacks that followed even a quick stop at a grocery store. Im way past that point now. Difficult to even remember a time before it all began. Going into stores without a mask; embracing people; shaking hands. Even family gatherings, all gone. Everything has changed this year, for better or worse. I feel oddly detached from the approaching holidays. The Covid format threatens to suck most of the joy right out of the season. I'm not quite as downbeat as this all sounds. I continue to find ways to relieve the stress by staying active and being creative. Can't help but wonder if artwork developed during the pandemic might someday be regarded as a unique genre. I'm not talking about photos of people wearing masks. Rather the subconscious impact on our worldview that emerges when we create. No doubt the pandemic has influenced us all, perhaps in ways that are yet to be recognized.