View allAll Photos Tagged RawEmotion
A fantastic way for MBBS students to combine their passion for medicine and social awareness with creative expression at their annual fest! Enacting plays on social themes can be very impactful.
his hands move through his hair. the gesture means nothing and everything. the tattoo tells one story, the eyes tell another. somewhere between these truths he exists. the camera finds him here, in this small pause. he does not look away.
There are moments when the light brushes against you and it feels like it’s touching a wound you’ve kept hidden for years. The kind that bleeds quietly, the kind you learned to live around. That soft brightness lands on you anyway, exposing the places you’ve gone numb, the places you’ve convinced yourself don’t matter anymore.
And suddenly you feel everything you’ve been holding back: the grief you never named, the loneliness you swallowed, the exhaustion that settled into your bones so slowly you mistook it for part of who you are. It’s overwhelming in a way that steals your breath, because you realize how long you’ve been surviving instead of living.
But in that raw, unguarded moment, something else stirs -something small, almost fragile. A longing you didn’t give yourself permission to feel. A quiet ache for gentleness, for rest, for a life that doesn’t require you to be so relentlessly strong. It’s terrifying to want that, to admit you’re tired of carrying the weight alone.
Yet there’s a strange, trembling hope in it too. Not the loud kind that promises everything will be okay, but the kind that whispers you might deserve more than the shadows you’ve grown accustomed to. The kind that asks you to stay still, to breathe, to let the light reach you even if it hurts. The kind that suggests healing begins not with triumph, but with finally allowing yourself to feel the depth of what you’ve survived.
i stood behind them. camera ready. i clicked my tongue—once, then twice. the third time he turned around. i took the shot. the light didn’t flinch. the street held its breath.
it stepped forward without hesitation, as if the world owed it an answer. ears wide, eyes locked, breath quiet — the leash barely mattered. there’s a kind of confidence that only dogs and poets have, the kind that doesn't wait for permission to be seen.
a hand shields, reveals, invites. from behind the fingers, one eye glows with memory, defiance, mischief. a portrait not of a face—but of a presence, in full quiet bloom.
shot during my comparison test of the sigma 135mm f/1.4 art on leica sl3 versus the sony 135mm f/1.8 gm on sony a7rv. full review with sample images now online: arnds.photos/blog/sigma-135-mm-vs-sony-135mm-gm?utm_sourc...
his hand moves through his hair while his eyes stay fixed on the lens. the tattoo catches shadow. the gesture says one thing, the gaze another. he holds both without contradiction. the light carves him from darkness. he allows it.
my weekly ai post
i tore at the seams and screamed into the dark, where broken things sing louder. every ring, every spike, every breath was rebellion stitched into skin. no gods, no masters — just raw, electric chaos beating inside my ribs, refusing to be still.
created with google gemini
a fleeting moment, stretched wide in laughter, spilling into the air like sunlight breaking free from clouds. her hands clasped in a pause between bursts, the soft blur of the world behind her, the bokeh glowing like tiny stage lights for an unscripted performance.
i’m running a small giveaway on instagram for this image — if you want to join in, you’ll find the details here: instagram.com/arnds.photos
morning light streamed through the window, sharp and golden, carving shapes in the air. two tables away, a man sat still, the lines on his face deep as stories untold. i asked if i could take his portrait. he chuckled, waved me off. "i’m not a good-looking man," he said. nonsense, i told him. the light wasn’t interested in good looks. it loved character, and he had plenty of it. he let me shoot, the glow falling across his weathered features like a map of a life lived. when i showed him the raw frame on my phone, his lips curled into a smile, faint but real. "not bad," he said. he was right—it wasn’t bad. it was honest.
a man, standing against the whispers of an oncoming storm, balances on the edge of the sea. the fishing rod in his hand is steady, but the air feels heavy, charged. the waves glimmer under a dull sky, their rhythm a warning, their pull a promise. in portixol, before the winds came, there was this fleeting quiet. the kind that settles deep in the bones, like a story waiting to be told.
The title encapsulates a precise and severe biological reality where two distinct physical dysfunctions amplify one another, subject to a constant state of bodily attrition.From a scientific standpoint, having the body perpetually wet due to hyperhidrosis forces the skin into a continuous process of forced evaporative cooling. Evaporation is the body’s most efficient mechanism for heat dissipation; for every liter of sweat that evaporates, the organism loses approximately 580 kilocalories. In a healthy individual, this mechanism serves to cool down the body during physical exertion; however, in chronic hyperhidrosis, this process never shuts off, causing a continuous and uncontrolled drop in superficial core temperature, regardless of ambient conditions.To compensate for this massive, unyielding heat loss and to stabilize internal temperature (homeostasis), the organism is driven into an immense metabolic overload. Under normal circumstances, the lungs actively assist in thermoregulation through respiration. Yet, in the presence of a severely compromised respiratory system or post-pneumothorax sequelae, air reserves and gaseous exchange efficiency are drastically diminished. The pulmonary system lacks the baseline strength to sustain this unrelenting energetic demand, while the constant cooling induced by the wet skin forces the airways to constrict, exacerbating physical fatigue, tightness, and organic wear. Consequently, the water armor ceases to be a mere visual metaphor and turns into a real clinical stressor, crushing the body’s innate ability to defend its own breath.
in the labyrinth of palma's streets, i met defiance with a silver mane. the man's eyes, heavy with untold sagas, bore into mineâa storm behind glass. his finger, outstretched, blurred but resolute, spoke louder than words. the light danced gently on his wild beard, a contrast to the sharp lines etched on his face. there was a challenge here, a dare, but also a quiet understanding. this was not just a portrait; it was a declaration.
Contemplation
________________________________________________
Many thanks for the visits, faves and comments! Have a nice day my friends!
________________________________________________
All rights reserved.
This image may not be copied, reproduced, distributed, republished, downloaded, displayed, posted or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying and recording without my written consent.
i had tried three times. each time in the office, ten shots. all of them were fine, but none of them felt right. andreas v. lochow is a joyful person. thatâs what i wanted to capture. but joy is not something you ask for. it has to happen. so i waited. and then, finally, i made him laugh. and that was the moment.
i’m running a small giveaway on instagram for this image — if you want to join in, you’ll find the details here: instagram.com/arnds.photos
i was walking past a laundromat on calle de hortaleza. saw this man and thought: if only he would turn around. and then, at some point, he did.
# null daten
# A fine, American made, product of anxiety... yes, pure unadulterated stress! beats the big pharma pushers, i suppose (when it's efficacious, that is). although i must hold my nose, whatever it takes, to administer their [censored by the new upstanding administrators/owners of Flickr] toxic...... er, therapeutic drug treatment! Yum! Tastes like uranium enriched grapefruit! Feel like [censored again]! I sure rest comfortably -- perhaps a bit too much -- knowing that America's fine pharma companies are finishing us off in fine, fast style. And for the resilient, we've got big, er, test plans for you! Ypa!
she stood outside the barbershop, cigarette in hand, scrolling through her phone. the man in the poster stared blankly, detached, larger than life but lifeless. i lifted the camera, and she caught me. her eyes narrowed, sharp and unamused. i pressed the shutter anyway. for a second, it felt like she might curse me, but instead, she laughed. i showed her the photo, and her disapproval melted into humor. "good shot," she said, taking another drag. the poster man said nothing.
my weekly ai post
i spat my anger into the cold streets, wore my rage like armor. every sneer was a battle cry, every step a march against silence. behind every crooked brick and broken window, i planted my flag. this is not a smile — it’s a warning
created with google gemini
she sat on a bench, scrolling, exhaling, lost in a thought she didn’t share. the smoke curled between us, vanishing before it could settle. a glance—direct, unreadable, gone in a second. plaça del rosari, a fleeting moment given, not taken.
🌹 Maloe Vansant is a master of raw emotion, transforming the spontaneous turmoil of the soul into breathtaking visual narratives.
Experience her powerful permanent exhibition at Souland Gallery.
See her work: iloveevents.online/maloe-vansant-3/
HERZSCHMERZ rests where it hurts
A weight born from longing, loss, and the ache that comes from feeling too much
Worn close, held tight, and carrying that familiar pull between love and pain
Exclusively at the TMD Event
January 5th to January 31st
This shot moves along the ambiguous borderline between a kiss and a breath, two fundamental acts born from the exact same root: the release of an inner force. It is not a plastic pose, but a conscious act of expulsion. That contraction of the lips becomes a channel through which I spit out my vital energy, a piece of myself projected with strength beyond the lens to be gifted to the viewer. Breath here is not a passive biological function, but a vehicle of power and donation, an extension of the body turning into an image. Republishing this split second today means unleashing that energy trapped years ago all over again, a reminder that photographing oneself is, above all, the visceral act of giving one's own air to the world.
i met him during the procession, standing quietly on the sidelines. no posing, no performance – just presence. every line on his face feels like it belongs there, like it’s earned. his eyes don’t ask for attention, but they hold something steady – years, maybe decades, of showing up, again and again.
this portrait isn’t about drama. it’s about someone who doesn’t need to prove anything.
A quiet pause in the middle of the street a moment suspended between movement and stillness. In a brief embrace, emotion surfaces without words, revealing the fragile weight carried between two people. Captured candidly in London.
Beyond Munch, My Scream
A face that screams the pain words cannot hold."
A raw and visceral self-portrait inspired by the emotional power of Munch's The Scream.
This image represents a deeply personal cry — silent, yet deafening — a manifestation of inner turmoil and unspoken truths.
It goes beyond imitation, becoming an authentic expression of my own experience and struggle.
At about 11pm on 12 October 2002 three bombs were detonated on the Indonesian island of Bali, two in busy Kuta Beach nightspots (Paddy's Irish Bar and Sari Club) and one in front of the American consulate in nearby Denpasar.
Wahyoe Wijaya graphically and emotionally presented that confronting moment in this sculpture. A bass player is instantly torn apart, flesh leaves bone, life leaves bodies, people stripped of dignity and being, a mother loses child, a child loses mother, a family destroyed, celebrating silenced forever, hatred explodes, and Bali's heart stops.
This horrible event was difficult to understand. People and nations grappled in despair as they sought to comprhend what occured in that moment, what led to this in the plots conceived and how individuals, Bali and nations might best respond. Respond with more violence and Bali was lost! To FORGET was impossible psychologically, dangerous sociologically and theologically would be apostasy.
So the choices that were made were to root out the criminality, to respond socially and nationally with non-violence, and to forgive becase we cannot forget. Three very liberating and healing choices!!!
In the carnage created by the 3 explosions, 202 people were killed, including 88 Australians.
Shocked, the Australian Prime Minister said, "let us wrap our arms around not only our fellow Australians but our arms around the people of Indonesia, of Bali, let us wrap our arms around the people of other nations and the friends and relatives of the nationals of other countries who have died in this horrible event."
This artwork was the response of Wahyoe Wijaya. He is a significant Indonesian artist. He was born in Yogyakarta, Java and studied art in Jakarta Art Academy (1970).
The instruction manual for my character in four steps and a single uncovered eye. First I spot you, then I pout to clear things up, and then I try to avoid you by hiding behind my hair. But watch out: the barrier is thin, and if necessary, I am absolutely ready to defend myself.
No curtain, no script—just sound carving its way through cracked walls and soft stares. There’s something sacred in how the streets listen. Some music fades. Some stays etched in the brick long after the last chord falls silent
A face that screams the pain words cannot hold."
A raw and visceral self-portrait inspired by the emotional power of Munch's The Scream.
This image represents a deeply personal cry — silent, yet deafening — a manifestation of inner turmoil and unspoken truths.
It goes beyond imitation, becoming an authentic expression of my own experience and struggle.
the air is thick with quiet. two people sit at a café in madrid, their lives divided by inches of metal and glass. her gaze drifts outward, searching for something the street cannot give her. his focus is on the glow of a phone, a portal to another world. between them sits the weight of unspoken words, heavy and still. the black and white tones stretch the moment, pulling every detail—the texture of the wall, the lines of their coats—into sharp relief. it’s a scene of distance, of connection undone, and of time pressing on without pause.
In the heart of Verona, where ancient stones whisper tales of love and tragedy, a man named Luca strummed his weathered guitar. Seated in his wheelchair, he played beneath an archway near the Arena, his music a bittersweet contrast to the hurried footsteps of tourists.
Luca had learned long ago that even the simplest things could be stolen. He secured his few belongings with a chain, a silent barrier against those who saw his misfortune as an easy opportunity. The first time someone had tried to take it, he had fought back, his voice louder than the thief’s greed. But he had learned—music could soothe a heart, but it could not protect an instrument.
And so, as the sun cast golden light upon Verona’s cobblestones, Luca played on. His guitar, though bound in chains, sang with the freedom of a soul that refused to be silenced.
the sand was damp from the morning tide, and the air hung heavy with the scent of salt and seaweed. he leaned forward, bracing himself against the world, his eyes locked on the horizon, as if searching for something just out of reach. the sunday quiet of santa ponça was broken only by the occasional cry of a gull. the beach, normally alive with sun and laughter, was still and waiting. behind him, the sea whispered its endless stories. the kind of stories he carried on his shoulders, each ripple a reminder of something lost, something found.
Between mustard blooms and intense daylight, she walks with purpose—carrying the weight of a thousand silent stories.
night in madrid, a gaze cutting through the dark. the city sleeps, but here something burns—maybe a cigarette, maybe a thought. his face holds stories untold, unseen, but felt. raw and unfiltered, like the streets that cradle him.
This image represents a state of active consciousness turned outward.
The gaze is alert, attentive, exposed. It observes the world as it is, without filters, fully aware of the risk involved in opening oneself to the outside. There is no naivety here, only awareness.
The external world appears as a place of possibility and, at the same time, of threat. The gaze does not close itself off, but remains on guard. It is a fragile balance between the desire for connection and the need for self-protection. Here, consciousness does not withdraw or escape; it faces what lies outside, accepting its own vulnerability.
Placed alongside the image of active consciousness turned inward, this work becomes its natural counterpart. The two images enter into dialogue as complementary states: one born from protection, the other from exposure. Two different, yet equally necessary, ways of inhabiting both the world and the self.
The sun burned down on the pavement of the small festival stage as Naïa closed her eyes, feeling the pulse of the music. Her arms moved in sync with the congas, the maracas in her hands creating a hypnotic sound that captivated the crowd.
Behind her, her bandmate drummed with tireless energy, while Naïa surrendered completely to the moment. The people in front of the stage danced barefoot, laughed, and let the music carry them away. This was her moment—an instant of perfect harmony.
As the last note faded, Naïa opened her eyes. Silence. Then, an explosion of cheers. She smiled. The rhythm of the street had once again touched people's hearts.
Influenced by an interpretation of Lee Jeffries’ powerful portrait style, I wanted to explore that same raw, emotional intensity in my own self‑portrait. Facing myself through the lens was humbling — every line and shadow felt like a chapter of my life reflected back at me. I used dramatic window light, a tight close‑up, and heavy black‑and‑white processing to emphasize texture and depth, pushing myself to be as honest in front of the camera as I try to be behind it.