View allAll Photos Tagged disarray
The National Museum of Cambodia in Phnom Penh is Cambodia's largest museum of cultural history and is the country's leading historical and archaeological museum.
The museum houses one of the world's largest collections of Khmer art, including sculptural, ceramics, bronzes, and ethnographic objects. Its collection includes over 14,000 items, from prehistoric times to periods before, during and after the Khmer Empire, which at its height stretched from Thailand, across present-day Cambodia, to southern Vietnam.
The National Museum of Cambodia is located on Street 13 in central Phnom Penh, to the north of the Royal Palace and on the west side of Veal Preah Man square. The visitors' entrance to the compound is at the corner of Streets 13 and 178. The Royal University of Fine Arts is located on the west side of the museum. The museum is under the authority of the Cambodian Ministry of Culture and Fine Arts. The museum buildings, inspired by Khmer temple architecture, were constructed between 1917 and 1924, the museum was officially inaugurated in 1920, and it was renovated in 1968.
George Groslier (1887–1945), historian, curator and author was the motivating force behind much of the revival of interest in traditional Cambodian arts and crafts, and it was he who designed this building that is today ‘traditional Khmer’ architecture. It is perhaps better described as a building enlarged from Cambodian temple prototypes seen on ancient bas-reliefs and reinterpreted through colonial eyes to meet the museum-size requirements.
The foundation stone for the new museum was laid on 15 August 1917. Some two-and-a-half years later, the completed museum was inaugurated during Khmer New Year on 13 April 1920 in the presence of H.M King Sisowath, François-Marius Baudoin, Résident-supérieur, and M. Groslier, director of Cambodian Arts, and Conservator of the museum.
The original design of the building was slightly altered in 1924 with extensions that added wings at either end of the eastern façade that made the building even more imposing.
Control of the National Museum and Arts Administration was ceded by the French to the Cambodians on 9 August 1951 and following Independence in 1953, the then Musée National de Phnom Penh was the subject of bilateral accords. In 1966 Chea Thay Seng was the first Cambodian Director of the Museum and Dean of the newly created Department of Archaeology at the Royal University of Fine Arts. This university that form its foundation as the Ecole des Arts Cambodgiens in 1920 was intimately linked with students, artisans and teachers who worked to preserve Cambodian cultural traditions, can still be found to the rear of the museum.
During Khmer Rouge regime of 1975-79—devastated all aspects of Cambodian life including the cultural realm. The Museum, along with the rest of Phnom Penh, was evacuated and abandoned. The Museum, closed between 1975 and 1979, and was found in disrepair, its roof rotten and home to a vast colony of bats, the garden overgrown, and the collection in disarray, many objects damaged or stolen. The Museum was quickly tidied up and reopened to the public on April 13, 1979. However, many of the Museum's employees had lost their lives during the Khmer Rouge regime.
Located in Cotton Plant, Arkansas. I was advised that this was the old Civil War Hospital. Like many of the older homes in town, this is in a state of disarray. Without a little TLC, who knows how long it will stand.
When you were born, beloved, was your soul
New made by God to match your body's flower,
And were they both at one same precious hour
Sent forth from heaven as a perfect whole?
Or had your soul since dim creation burned,
A star in some still region of the sky,
That leaping earthward, left its place on high
And to your little new-born body yearned?
No words can tell in what celestial hour
God made your soul and gave it mortal birth,
Nor in the disarray of all the stars
Is any place so sweet that such a flower
Might linger there until thro' heaven's bars,
It heard God's voice that bade it down to earth.
Words by Sara Teasdale
for Flickriver - Sophie Shapiro
Warszawa, Poland
Autumn
New collection of NFT on Foundation
Living in the city is often complicated by the confusion of disarray, which I am constantly fascinated by. People, structures, motion, and noise contribute to how the city reveals itself to me.
In this collection, I used the walls of glass that make up the cityscape and give another point of view that can go unnoticed as they blend into a chaotic display.
Each 1/1 is a single image taken in Warsaw over several years. None are double exposure.
Instagram. Website. Behance. linktr.ee/ewitsoe
Los que leéis mis crónicas sabéis que no soy un fotógrafo blandengue, de esos que se desaniman ante la más mínima adversidad. Creo que en el ámbito ferroviario he desarrollado una gran capacidad de resiliencia que resulta impensable en otros aspectos de mi vida. Pero cuando te acercas a la vía y vives consecutivamente cuatro o cinco jornadas para olvidar, empieza a rondarte la idea de que quizás estás dedicando demasiado tiempo a algo que apenas te aporta satisfacciones. Experimentar cómo en la línea Madrid-Irún no circula ni un solo tren en casi tres horas resulta agotador y aniquila temporalmente las ganas de volver por allí. Además, ves que la infraestructura está patas arriba y asistes entre incrédulo e indignado a la penosa circulación de los trenes durante varios kilómetros a velocidades que rondarán los 10 kilómetros por hora. Diréis que siempre consigo alguna foto de un tren que vale la pena, pero las últimas que estoy haciendo padecen de tal sobredosis de grafitis que vuelvo a casa pensando sobre todo en el trabajo que me va costar limpiarlas. Esta foto ilustra perfectamente lo que os estoy contando. Salía de trabajar de noche (tras un turno de 13 horas) y me avisaron de la circulación de este tren de CEFSA. Pensaba que con esta foto iba a vivir al fin ese momento mágico que llevo semanas sin experimentar, pero al final todo se torció. Lo primero que me desanimó fue comprobar que la vegetación había arruinado este punto, el único que me quedaba para fotografiar los trenes que bajan a Bilbao al mediodía. Pese a todo, allí me quedé porque esperaba que vinieran las Mitsubishi 269 con librea morada y, además, el tiempo era excelente. Finalmente hicieron su aparición las locomotoras de la foto con una ominosa sobredosis de grafitis. Desprendían un olor muy sospechoso que yo achaqué al desgaste de las zapatas de los frenos tras descender por el Puerto de Orduña. Sin embargo, pocos kilómetros más adelante se detuvieron en la estación de Llodio por un problema de calentamiento de ejes. Allí estuvieron detenidas durante largas horas dificultando la ya de por sí complicada circulación de esta destartalada línea. Eso sí, al final las Mitsubishi dieron más guerra en el ordenador durante el desparasitado de grafitis que en la Vía 1 de la estación de Llodio.
Those of you who read my chronicles know that I'm not a weak photographer, one who gets discouraged by the slightest adversity. I believe that as a railfan I've developed a great capacity for resilience that is unthinkable in other aspects of my life. But when you get close to the track and live four or five consecutive days to forget, the thought begins to haunt you that perhaps you're spending too much time on something that brings you little satisfaction. Experiencing how any train runs on the Madrid-Irún line for almost three hours is exhausting and temporarily annihilates any desire to return. Furthermore, you see the infrastructure in disarray and watch, between disbelief and indignation, the painful movement of trains for several kilometers at speeds of around 10 kilometers per hour. You'll say I always manage to get some worthwhile train photos, but the last few I've been taking suffer from such an overdose of graffiti that I return home thinking mostly about the work it will take to clean them up. This photo perfectly illustrates what I'm telling you. I was leaving my night work (after a 13-hour shift) and was notified of the arrival of this CEFSA train. I thought this photo would finally give me that magical moment I haven't experienced for weeks, but in the end, everything went wrong. The first thing that discouraged me was seeing that the vegetation had ruined this spot, the only one I had left to photograph the trains that descend to Bilbao at midday. Despite everything, I stayed there because I was hoping for the purple-liveried Mitsubishi 269s, and the weather was excellent. Finally, the locomotives in the photo appeared, covered in an ominous overdose of graffiti. They gave off a very suspicious smell, which I attributed to the worn brake pads after descending the Orduña Pass. However, a few kilometers later, they stopped at Llodio station due to an axle overheating problem. They were stopped there for long hours, hampering the already complicated operation of this rickety line. However, in the end, the Mitsubishis caused more trouble on the computer during the graffiti removal than on Track 1 at Llodio station.
shooting on the front porch again since the weather is SO nice and my house is still in remodel disarray.
Canon 5D III, Lensbaby sweet35, 2LO texture Galactic 24 to which i added light leaks, one from Flypaper and a vintage wallpaper texture.
Part of a photo essay I'm working on for college that explores the impact of the current economic climate in the UK, especially the austerity and notion of the 'Big Society' on our personal lives and interests.
I'm looking to explore if we're being pushed or feel socially obligated to give up hobbies that support other economies (since most of the dolls come from Korea, Japan and China) when our own is such disarray as well as being pushed to give up our own free time that might otherwise be taken up by personal interests to volunteer for community projects and charity work that the government is slashing the funding for (as is the entire idea behind the 'Big Society).
And of course there's the whole aspect of escapism, and how we have a right to our hobbies to escape those pressures, who are the government to be trying to dictate what we should be doing with our time?
Temple of Valadier
An elegant octagonal church rises among the pointed and beveled rocks of a gorge between the mountains:
it is the Temple of Valadier, in Genga, Marche (Italy).
The visual contrast is outstanding: the neoclassic architecture in travertine designed by Giuseppe Valadier (Rome, 1762-1839) – with the luminous symmetry of its eight sides symbolizing the Resurrection of Jesus, which occurred “on the eighth day” – stands against the rough disarray of nature, near the magnificent Frasassi Caves dug in limestone by the Sentino river.
The local people very likely sought refuge in these hidden grottos around the 10th century, when tribes from today’s Hungary raided the area.
The temple was built in 1828 by pope Leone XII, born Annibale Sermattei della Genga, and once housed a statue of the Madonna and Child made in Antonio Canova’s workshop.
Beng Mealea is a large temple between Angkor Wat and Koh Ker that fell into ruins centuries ago. Its history is documented incompletely and it is visited mainly from the perimeter because it is mostly unrestored, with only a few safe pathways designated through it.
This was a raised stone roadway approaching the temple from the west. A larger and more grand approach on the south side was in even greater disarray.
The great visuals here were diminished by poor light, to be followed by the one and only rain that fell on me in Cambodia.
What could be nicer than an ice cream at the seaside on a hot summer day. Certainly mum and two of her 3 children are enjoying them, the older boy is more interested in the gallery of photographers in slight disarray as the approaching 47 is seen to have a freight behind it. 47 258 has a short mixed freight from Exeter bound for either Newton Abbot or Plymouth, the train is in the familiar station at Dawlish.
47258 was built at Loughborough as D1938, it was put into traffic 27/04/1966. The loco was withdrawn 30/09/2004 and cut at C.F. Booth in Rotherham 05/07/2005.
Copyright Geoff Dowling 30/06/1975: All rights reserved
May 22, 1989.
We got the strangest call this morning, something from a panicked woman about "Union soldiers in Teds Sup'R'Mart."
Needless to say, we decided that we could use some excitement to liven up our day.
When we got to Teds Sup'R'Mart, we found it in complete disarray.
The root of the problem was standing bunched up in the doorway looking slightly confused and angry. As the lady had said, there were indeed Union soldiers in the Minimart.
There by time travel? We'll never know for sure.
Sgt. Dink called for backup and then we headed in.
Services across all lines were suspended just before 8am, due to a communications fault at the Old Trafford control. An intermittent service was resumed on all lines around an hour later.
At around 1545 after another problem in the Cornbrook area and services in total disarray the decision was taken to suspend all lines.
Car 3094 rolls into St. Peters Square.
Compagnie ACIDU
NAGEUSES SUR BITUME
Cinq femmes en quête de synchronisation
Cinq nageuses synchronisées. Cinq femmes. « Interdites de piscine », elles se retrouvent à la rue et dans la rue, pour manifester leur désarroi, leur colère et leur désir ; sans piscine et sans eau, elles continuent d’avancer, de vivre… Nage ou crève ! Elles s’adaptent, s’inventent un monde afin de nager sur le bitume, dans une piscine remplie d’air, la rue ; aux côtés d’autres nageurs en eaux troubles, les spectateurs.
Company ACIDU
SWIMMERS ON BITUMEN
Five women in search of synchronization
Five synchronized swimmers. Five women. "Forbidden swimming pool", they find themselves in the street and in the street, to show their disarray, their anger and their desire; Without swimming pool and without water, they continue to advance, to live ... Swim or die! They adapt, invent a world in order to swim on the bitumen, in a pool filled with air, the street; Alongside other swimmers in troubled waters, the spectators.
Acidu Unternehmen
Schwimmer auf ASPHALT
Fünf Frauen auf der Suche für die Synchronisation
Fünf Synchronschwimmer . Fünf Frauen. „Forbidden Pool“, finden sie sich auf der Straße und auf der Straße ihre Bestürzung, Wut und den Wunsch zu zeigen; kein Pool und kein Wasser, sie weiterhin nach vorne zu bewegen, zu leben oder sterben ... Swim! Sie passen, erfinden eine Welt auf dem Asphalt schwimmen in einem Pool mit Luft gefüllt ist, die Straße; neben anderen Schwimmern in trüben Gewässern, Zuschauer.
the look of disarray ~~~ like tousled hair~~~the under-feathers on the head show what will be in a couple of years~~ that beautiful white head of the mature bald eagle~~
Pink Fuel: Doll V2 Crystal Skin
Ayashi: Midori Hair (Creepy Kawaii Fair)
Cathode Rays: Nyam Nyam Mouth
Slink: Hands and Feet
Sweet Thing: Song of Swans Elegant Tiara
Lovely Disarray: Devotion Eye Shadow (Cosmetic Fair) and Dripping Nails Reverse (Creepy Kawaii Fair)
Moon Amore: Sweet Lydiah Dress + Eyebats (Creepy Kawaii Fair)
Nemesis: Criminal Tights (Closed)
The Sugar Garden: Ruffle Platform Shoes
48/365 - Not the tidiest of server rooms but the cat 5 network cables are colourful whether they are tidy or in disarray.
After the Wars of Dissolution, the Yugoslav Ministry of Defense realized it would need to modernize key components of the National Army before Yugoslavia's neighbors decided to steamroll the reeling nation. One of these components was of course the armored corps which hadn't seen much enhancement since mid-Cold War. Unfortunately, the Wars of Dissolution managed to take their toll on Yugoslavia's heavy industry and much of the state economy was in disarray as workers had abandoned their posts to fight for nationalistic factions or were kidnapped/intimidated by these factions.
After nearly two years of negotiations with Czechia, Yugoslavia managed to secure a cheap stop-gap deal that would allow the latter to purchase upgrade kits for its dated T-84s (domestic clones of the Soviet T-72). The kits--designated as the T-72M4YUG standard in Czechia--were primarily meant for adding ERA to key areas of the the tank, enhancing the onboard optics, and adding a more powerful powerplant. The last component came with something of a downside as the new engine was quite the fuel-hungry beast, so the Yugoslavs added four hardpoints for external fuel tanks to be attached during marches. At any rate, the new M-72A standard has demonstrated its worth as it was the predominant armored combatant in the Second Eastern European War and has reportedly been serving with the Yugoslav-backed Black Cross units who continue to terrorize the Balkans.
More photos and travel stories at www.photosontheroad.eu
One of the few remaining ancient fortifications that once protected the Old Town from invasion, Partisan Hill was built between 1594 and 1598, and originally awarded the name Bastion Sakwowy (Saddlebag Bastion). The buildings you see today date from the 19th century, however, when the area was redeveloped as public recreational space. A fearsome tower designed by Berlin architect Carl Schmidt was added in 1867, though this was demolished during WWII to prevent advancing Russian troops from using it as a reference point for artillery shelling. At the start of the Siege of 1945 the subterranean bunkers and catacombs were used as HQ by Nazi high command, though they relocated in March 1945 as the Red Army drew closer. After the war the hillock was oddly re-christened 'Partisan Hill' and the old cellars temporarily housed a museum. Sadly sold to private investors in the 1990s, and having since been occupied by beer gardens, strip clubs and restaurants, today the area lies in complete disarray, forlorn and forgotten - a once gleaming construction littered with smashed bottles and spray can squiggles. The creepy, wind-swept loneliness that greets visitors is ripe for myth and legend, and stories of secret Nazi tunnels and the ghostly shrieks of prisoners tortured to death in medieval times abound. Source: www.inyourpocket.com/poland/wroclaw/sightseeing/Places-of...
As word spread throughout Lenfald of its newfound independence, the rioting quickly subsided and was replaced with celebration in the street and even public displays of national pride. Citizens walked with purpose and went about their daily labors with vigor, invigorated by the exciting news. Young men once again lined up to enlist in the service of Lenfald.
Abner was sent with Gottfried to assist in the training of some of these new recruits and to share with them some of his personal experiences with the rangers. This task took the men to the southern wall of Ainesford city proper, where the new training area for spear units had been constructed. It consisted of not much more than an open field adjacent to the perimeter wall, but it was well-kept and served its purpose well.
The rangers were escorted by Captain Harmon, the commander of the training center and its garrison. He briefed the two men as they made their way alongside the wall.
"We learned a lot of valuable lessons during the war with Loreos," he said. "Namely that Lenfald simply lacked a solid defense against the might of the Loreesi cavalry and elephants. But no more." He gestured in the direction of a formation of pikemen on the drill field. "Observe."
"Ready... BRACE!" came the command from the sergeant in charge of the formation. The soldiers moved in perfect synchronization, the front rank dropping to a knee and simultaneously lowering their long spears and the men behind them filling the gaps with their own pikes. Any enemy coming against the formation would now be facing a deadly thicket of sharpened steel.
"As you can see," continued Captain Harmon with a smirk, "That problem has long been resolved. We have also been training new spear units, armored and carrying kite shields, to protect the flanks of our armies. All of our new soldiers will be useful in fending off enemy infantry and cavalry while our archers rain death upon them."
Captain Gottfried Meyrick nodded. "Well done, Captain. It would appear that Ainesford is well prepared for any contingency."
"Aye," came the reply, "and not just Ainesford, but all Lenfald."
Abner spoke up, "To what do you refer, sir? Have you more news to share?"
Captain Harmon lowered his voice. "Aye, ranger. The Areani think themselves quite clever spies, but they are nothing compared to Lenfel scouts. We have them thoroughly convinced that our nation's military is in disarray and that our people continue to riot. Even now the Loreesi are assembling a mighty host under the command of Mark of Falworth just south of our borders. They believe us weak and disorganized. This will give us a critical advantage if the desert rats decide to attempt another incursion into our lands. We will rout them and send them running back to the sand pits."
Abner furrowed his brow. "But would it not be more advantageous to arrange a great show of force along the border? Discourage Loreos from invading to begin with?"
Captain Harmon shook his head. "One would think so, at first," he replied, "but Jarius does not think in this manner. He has likely already decided whether or not he will invade Lenfald; it matters not how many men we amass at the border. Jarius' pride is too great for him to back down no matter what the odds. No, young warrior, our best course of action is to continue to feed our enemy false intelligence. But in the meantime, let's continue with our preparations."
"Ich bin das Alpha und das Omega, der Erste und der Letzte, der Anfang und das Ende." (Offenbarung 22,13).
Ist das der Anfang oder das Ende...?
"I am the alpha and the omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end." (Revelation 22:13).
Is that the beginning or the end ...?
Finally a red one!
Actually I found this only a couple of days into my project while on holidays down the coast.
We were heading back to the house when we saw it parked on the side of the road near the beach . . . two girls were at the helm . . . their Kombi interior resembling that of a teenagers bedroom in disarray and complete with handbags and pink feather boa hanging from the roof inside!
I've been wanting to put this one up from the start but didn't have the right image to pair with it, that is until I found this one today in an old antique warehouse of all places! It's amazing what you can find in a lunch break!
You can see all of my Retro VW's here: 100 x Retro VW: The 2015 edition.
We're looking across to the left side of the Collierville Macy's in this view, where there was already some disarray in the shoe department over there, not surprising of course since shoe departments often manage to stay that way even during normal times! And note the generous amount of "additional 10% off" signs on many of the counters in the foreground.
____________________________________
Macy's, 2005-built (as Parisian, closed Spring 2021), Hwy. 385 at Houston Levee Rd., Collierville TN
Poem.
Last snows of spring.
The misty peak of
Stob Coire nan Lochan,
pre-cursor to Bidean nam Bian, 1,150 metres,
hidden from view.
Rugged, raw, rocky valleys,
Raging, tumbling, plunging burns
dive down to the superlative Glencoe, below.
This place gloriously throws the senses into disarray.
This 420 million-year-old remnant of
a supervolcano subsidence caldera,
grabs the heart, mind and soul.
It is magnificent beyond my feeble words.
"Just a quick note to let all My Friends know
I'll be sailin' slow thru your streams this
week. Due to a rapidly rising flash flood
Sunday Afternoon, all of our floors got wet!
OH, it could've been much worse....but of
course everything is still in total disarray!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"So, if I'm extra slow commenting you know
I'm either bogged down or lookin' for some-
thing I've misplaced!" LOL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Love You All!
~Mary Lou
I never post back stories for my MOCs, but I’m making an exception this time. If y’all read all of this, I’ll be seriously impressed.
A fully recorded account of this story can be found in the Grandmaster Library in the city of Goldenrod; but, given the current situation, that library is unavailable. The story goes roughly as follows: Three-thousand years ago, in a land far away from Roawia, there lived a simple blacksmith by the name of Orion. This smith lived in a time of near anarchy, where regimes were overthrown daily and where lawlessness was rampant. Good men lived in the shadows, seeking only what was needed to survive, while evil men lived in the sunlight, hoarding power and thriving off greed. The need for order was obvious, but the strength necessary for order was eluding man’s grasp. That is, until God visited Orion in the dead of night. God gave the smith a chunk of a golden metal, infused with His own power and might. Orion knew immediately what he must do. By divine intervention, Orion forged a Crown of power out of the golden metal. With the birth of that Crown a nation was born, a nation that dominated the land in every aspect for three thousand years.
The Crown was passed down from Orion, father to son, creating a dynasty as legendary and powerful as the Crown itself. For three-hundred generations, evil was fought, territory was gained, and cities were built. Each king ruled with justice and fought with valor. There were times of war and peace, prosperity and famine, enlightenment and decline. The nation, which came to be called the Dawn Crown (or simply, the Crown), went through four distinct golden ages up to the point where our story begins, the most recent occurring one hundred and fifty years ago under the reign of King Cormac II, also known as Cormac the Great. (This is the time period where most of my castle MOCs are set.) The Crown slowly declined from that time onward, until disaster struck forty years ago.
Cormac VI, the great-great-grandson of the legendary Cormac the Great became king at the age of thirty-eight. Later that same year, he fathered a son, Cormac VII. During the second year of his reign, evil struck at the heart of the nation. Bandits, men from nowhere, crept into the palace at Goldenrod during the dead of night. They stole the king’s Crown, by strange magical means, and fled to places unknown. The ensuing months were pandemonium. Somehow, the people of the Crown knew. They knew that their sole source of power was gone. Cormac searched everywhere, roaming across the land for years and years, leaving his nation in disarray. He was rarely at the palace to raise his son, and he could only watch as his nation crumbled before him. The Orcs attacked from the north crippling dozens of cities along the way. They wormed their way through the heart of the land, until after twenty years of war; they finally arrived at Goldenrod to sack the capital. Cormac VI and his men fought valiantly, but all was for naught. Cormac was slain in battle by a rogue arrow. Without their King and their Crown, the nation was overtaken. Prince Cormac VII, spurred by the anger at the death of his father was running to fight to his death defending the gates of Goldenrod when a most curious thing happened. An old man, withering away before their eyes, stopped him on his march, and proclaimed to him these words: “It’s in Roawia”. Cormac knew immediately what he had to do. He gathered twenty of his best men and sent those that were left to hold the gate for as long as they could.
He had heard stories from his mother about Roawia, a land far to east, across the sea. Cormac and his men fled, to the coast, to their last resort set in place by his grandfather. A ship, packed with months of provisions, had been hidden in a cove right outside of Goldenrod. The men clambered on to the ship, carrying with them as many relics of the nation as they could. Cormac left that day, leaving a nation smoldering in ruins, only a shadow of its former glory. But as he watched the city burn from the sea, he swore to himself and his nation that he would return, with the Crown on his head, to re-establish the nation that had ruled so valiantly for three-thousand years.
So our story for the LCC starts with the arrival of Cormac VII, beaten and worn, on the western coast of Lenfald, just south of Isil Oro. Cormac must find the Crown, not only for himself, but for his nation as well.
If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times:
Respect the Crown, even if it is green thesedays.
It is Christmas time and there is nothing better than a wreath hung that greats and welcomes everyone. I drive down this road in the evening and this barn sets back off the road. Many barns this old are in disarray but this is well kept. It has been taken care of over the years. The wreath hanging on the mow door tells you any animals inside are well cared for.
An image may be purchased at edward-peterson.pixels.com/featured/the-christmas-barn-ed...
Rules
* You have to prepare a special post for Cosmetic Fair.
* You have to blog at minimum 10 items from different designers.
Application procedure
Send Anya McConach a notecard with this information.
Title the NC: Cosmetic Fair Application (YOUR NAME)
Name:
Blog Name:
Blog/Flickr:
Please list all feeds you are on:
BRANDS : MONS, NOX, Lovely Disarray, La Malvada Mujer, Nuuna, ACTION, KOOQLA, DeLa, Genesis Lab, Moon Amore, theSkinnery, New Faces, KoKoLoReS, Blues Hair, DAZED, Swallow, Ayashi, LpD, pekka, Pink Acid, KOSH, Bella Elephante, elymode, ZOZ, Shakeup, The Wicked Peach, ANGELICA, PICHI, random.Matter, Paperbag, Deesses, sYs, Vive Nine Fiore, DeeTaleZ, SOONSIKI, La Petite Morte, Zibska, TSG, Gang/Cold, Nova, SlackGirl, Identy Body Shop, Clemmm, MissC, Adored, Essences, MudSkin, imabee, Chelle, Song Eyes.
This is the same hawk that I posted yesterday. When I returned to see if it had scored on catching breakfast this is how he looked. Looks like he lost the fight with the small rodent. All his feathers in disarray, mud on its beak and mud on his talons. I watched as he began to smooth his feathers. I then left him in peace. Did he catch the rodent? I'll never know.
From my set entitled “Flamborough (In the works)
www.flickr.com/photos/21861018@N00/sets/72157609242256025/
In my collection entitled “ Places”
www.flickr.com/photos/21861018@N00/collections/7215760074...
In my photostream
www.flickr.com/photos/21861018@N00/
Mizeners Antiques & Flea Market
31 Dundas St. East at Hwy #5
Mailing: 367 Highway 5 West, Flamborough, L9H5E2
(905) 690-3532
Admission: $2.00 per carload of visitors.
It used to be called Circle M Flea Market. We’ve been going there for close to thirty years. There are tons of surprises. It’s a 15 minute drive from downtown Burlington with 40,000 sq.ft. of indoor bargains! The Mizeners have taken the original Circle M Flea Market and added new vendors and merchandise, and it’s open every Sunday, year round. It’s one of the oldest and largest authentic antique and flea markets in Ontario. Over 100 Vendors offer re-stocked merchandise weekly.
Post Processing:
Topaz / vibrance (HDR)
PhotoShop Elements 5 / multiply, posterization, ink outlines, sandstone texture
Amedeo Modigliani
Italian, 1884 - 1920
Woman with a Necklace, 1917
Oil on canvas
(closeup)
Amedeo Clemente Modigliani (July 12, 1884 – January 24, 1920) was a Jewish-Italian painter and sculptor who pursued his career for the most part in France. Modigliani was born in Livorno, Italy and began his artistic studies in Italy before moving to Paris in 1906. Influenced by the artists in his circle of friends and associates, by a range of genres and movements, and by primitive art, Modigliani's oeuvre was nonetheless unique and idiosyncratic. He died in Paris of tubercular meningitis—exacerbated by a lifestyle of excess—at the age of 35.
Early life
Modigliani was born into a Jewish family in Livorno, Italy.
Livorno was still a relatively new city, by Italian standards, in the late nineteenth century. The city on the Tyrrhenian coast dates from around 1600, when it was transformed from a swampy village into a seaport. The Livorno that Modigliani knew was a bustling centre of commerce focused upon seafaring and shipwrighting, but its cultural history lay in being a refuge for those persecuted for their religion. His own maternal great-great-grandfather was one Solomon Garsin, a Jew who had immigrated to Livorno in the eighteenth century as a religious refugee.
Modigliani was the fourth child of Flaminio Modigliani and his wife, Eugenia Garsin. His father was in the money-changing business, but when the business went bankrupt, the family lived in dire poverty. In fact, Amedeo's birth saved the family from certain ruin, as, according to an ancient law, creditors could not seize the bed of a pregnant woman or a mother with a newborn child. When bailiffs entered the family home, just as Eugenia went into labour, the family protected their most valuable assets by piling them on top of the expectant mother.
Modigliani had a particularly close relationship with his mother, who taught her son at home until he was ten. Beset with health problems after a bout of typhoid at the age of fourteen, two years later he contracted the tuberculosis which would affect him for the rest of his life. To help him recover from his many childhood illnesses, she took him to Naples in Southern Italy, where the warmer weather was conducive to his convalescence.
His mother was, in many ways, instrumental in his ability to pursue art as a vocation. When he was eleven years of age, she had noted in her diary that:
“The child's character is still so unformed that I cannot say what I think of it. He behaves like a spoiled child, but he does not lack intelligence. We shall have to wait and see what is inside this chrysalis. Perhaps an artist?"
Art student years
Modigliani is known to have drawn and painted from a very early age, and thought himself "already a painter", his mother wrote, even before beginning formal studies. Despite her misgivings that launching him on a course of studying art would impinge upon his other studies, his mother indulged the young Modigliani's passion for the subject.
At the age of fourteen, while sick with the typhoid fever, he raved in his delirium that he wanted, above all else, to see the paintings in the Palazzo Pitti and the Uffizi in Florence. As Livorno's local museum only housed a sparse few paintings by the Italian Renaissance masters, the tales he had heard about the great works held in Florence intrigued him, and it was a source of considerable despair to him, in his sickened state, that he might never get the chance to view them in person. His mother promised that she would take him to Florence herself, the moment he was recovered. Not only did she fulfil this promise, but she also undertook to enroll him with the best painting master in Livorno, Guglielmo Micheli.
Micheli and the Macchiaioli
Modigliani worked in the studio of Micheli from 1898 to 1900. Here his earliest formal artistic instruction took place in an atmosphere deeply steeped in a study of the styles and themes of nineteenth-century Italian art. In his earliest Parisian work, traces of this influence, and that of his studies of Renaissance art, can still be seen: artists such as Giovanni Boldini figure just as much in this nascent work as do those of Toulouse-Lautrec.
Modigliani showed great promise while with Micheli, and only ceased his studies when he was forced to, by the onset of tuberculosis.
In 1901, whilst in Rome, Modigliani admired the work of Domenico Morelli, a painter of melodramatic Biblical studies and scenes from great literature. It is ironic that he should be so struck by Morelli, as this painter had served as an inspiration for a group of iconoclasts who went by the title, the Macchiaioli (from macchia—"dash of colour", or, more derogatively, "stain"), and Modigliani had already been exposed to the influences of the Macchiaioli. This minor, localised art movement was possessed of a need to react against the bourgeois stylings of the academic genre painters. While sympathetically connected to (and actually pre-dating) the French Impressionists, the Macchiaioli did not make the same impact upon international art culture as did the followers of Monet, and are today largely forgotten outside of Italy.
Modigliani's connection with the movement was through Micheli, his first art teacher. Micheli was not only a Macchiaioli himself, but had been a pupil of the famous Giovanni Fattori, a founder of the movement. Micheli's work, however, was so fashionable and the genre so commonplace that the young Modigliani reacted against it, preferring to ignore the obsession with landscape that, as with French Impressionism, characterised the movement. Micheli also tried to encourage his pupils to paint en plein air, but Modigliani never really got a taste for this style of working, sketching in cafes, but preferring to paint indoors, and especially in his own studio. Even when compelled to paint landscapes (three are known to exist), Modigliani chose a proto-Cubist palette more akin to Cézanne than to the Macchiaioli.
While with Micheli, Modigliani not only studied landscape, but also portraiture, still-life, and the nude. His fellow students recall that the latter was where he displayed his greatest talent, and apparently this was not an entirely academic pursuit for the teenager: when not painting nudes, he was occupied with seducing the household maid.
Despite his rejection of the Macchiaioli approach, Modigliani nonetheless found favour with his teacher, who referred to him as "Superman", a pet name reflecting the fact that Modigliani was not only quite adept at his art, but also that he regularly quoted from Nietzsche's Thus Spake Zarathustra. Fattori himself would often visit the studio, and approved of the young artist's innovations.
In 1902, Modigliani continued what was to be a life-long infatuation with life drawing, enrolling in the Accademia di Belle Arti (Scuola Libera di Nudo, or "Free School of Nude Studies") in Florence. A year later while still suffering from tuberculosis, he moved to Venice, where he registered to study at the Istituto di Belle Arti.
It is in Venice that he first smoked hashish and, rather than studying, began to spend time frequenting disreputable parts of the city. The impact of these lifestyle choices upon his developing artistic style is open to conjecture, although these choices do seem to be more than simple teenage rebellion, or the cliched hedonism and bohemianism that was almost expected of artists of the time; his pursuit of the seedier side of life appears to have roots in his appreciation of radical philosophies, such as those of Nietzsche.
Early literary influences
Having been exposed to erudite philosophical literature as a young boy under the tutelage of Isaco Garsin, his maternal grandfather, he continued to read and be influenced through his art studies by the writings of Nietzsche, Baudelaire, Carduzzi, Comte de Lautréamont, and others, and developed the belief that the only route to true creativity was through defiance and disorder.
Letters that he wrote from his 'sabbatical' in Capri in 1901 clearly indicate that he is being more and more influenced by the thinking of Nietzsche. In these letters, he advised friend Oscar Ghiglia,
“(hold sacred all) which can exalt and excite your intelligence... (and) ... seek to provoke ... and to perpetuate ... these fertile stimuli, because they can push the intelligence to its maximum creative power.”
The work of Lautréamont was equally influential at this time. This doomed poet's Les Chants de Maldoror became the seminal work for the Parisian Surrealists of Modigliani's generation, and the book became Modigliani's favourite to the extent that he learnt it by heart. The poetry of Lautréamont is characterised by the juxtaposition of fantastical elements, and by sadistic imagery; the fact that Modigliani was so taken by this text in his early teens gives a good indication of his developing tastes. Baudelaire and D'Annunzio similarly appealed to the young artist, with their interest in corrupted beauty, and the expression of that insight through Symbolist imagery.
Modigliani wrote to Ghiglia extensively from Capri, where his mother had taken him to assist in his recovery from the tuberculosis. These letters are a sounding board for the developing ideas brewing in Modigliani's mind. Ghiglia was seven years Modigliani's senior, and it is likely that it was he who showed the young man the limits of his horizons in Livorno. Like all precocious teenagers, Modigliani preferred the company of older companions, and Ghiglia's role in his adolescence was to be a sympathetic ear as he worked himself out, principally in the convoluted letters that he regularly sent, and which survive today.
“Dear friend
I write to pour myself out to you and to affirm myself to myself. I am the prey of great powers that surge forth and then disintegrate... A bourgeois told me today - insulted me - that I or at least my brain was lazy. It did me good. I should like such a warning every morning upon awakening: but they cannot understand us nor can they understand life...”
Paris
Arrival
In 1906 Modigliani moved to Paris, then the focal point of the avant-garde. In fact, his arrival at the epicentre of artistic experimentation coincided with the arrival of two other foreigners who were also to leave their marks upon the art world: Gino Severini and Juan Gris.
He settled in Le Bateau-Lavoir, a commune for penniless artists in Montmartre, renting himself a studio in Rue Caulaincourt. Even though this artists' quarter of Montmartre was characterised by generalised poverty, Modigliani himself presented - initially, at least - as one would expect the son of a family trying to maintain the appearances of its lost financial standing to present: his wardrobe was dapper without ostentation, and the studio he rented was appointed in a style appropriate to someone with a finely attuned taste in plush drapery and Renaissance reproductions. He soon made efforts to assume the guise of the bohemian artist, but, even in his brown corduroys, scarlet scarf and large black hat, he continued to appear as if he were slumming it, having fallen upon harder times.
When he first arrived in Paris, he wrote home regularly to his mother, he sketched his nudes at the Colarossi school, and he drank wine in moderation. He was at that time considered by those who knew him as a bit reserved, verging on the asocial. He is noted to have commented, upon meeting Picasso who, at the time, was wearing his trademark workmen's clothes, that even though the man was a genius, that did not excuse his uncouth appearance.
Transformation
Within a year of arriving in Paris, however, his demeanour and reputation had changed dramatically. He transformed himself from a dapper academician artist into a sort of prince of vagabonds.
The poet and journalist Louis Latourette, upon visiting the artist's previously well-appointed studio after his transformation, discovered the place in upheaval, the Renaissance reproductions discarded from the walls, the plush drapes in disarray. Modigliani was already an alcoholic and a drug addict by this time, and his studio reflected this. Modigliani's behaviour at this time sheds some light upon his developing style as an artist, in that the studio had become almost a sacrificial effigy for all that he resented about the academic art that had marked his life and his training up to that point.
Not only did he remove all the trappings of his bourgeois heritage from his studio, but he also set about destroying practically all of his own early work. He explained this extraordinary course of actions to his astonished neighbours thus:
“Childish baubles, done when I was a dirty bourgeois."
The motivation for this violent rejection of his earlier self is the subject of considerable speculation. The self-destructive tendencies may have stemmed from his tuberculosis and the knowledge (or presumption) that the disease had essentially marked him for an early death; within the artists' quarter, many faced the same sentence, and the typical response was to set about enjoying life while it lasted, principally by indulging in self-destructive actions. For Modigliani such behavior may have been a response to a lack of recognition; it is known that he sought the company of other alcoholic artists such as Utrillo and Soutine, seeking acceptance and validation for his work from his colleagues.
Modigliani's behavior stood out even in these Bohemian surroundings: he carried on frequent affairs, drank heavily, and used absinthe and hashish. While drunk he would sometimes strip himself naked at social gatherings. He became the epitome of the tragic artist, creating a posthumous legend almost as well-known as that of Vincent van Gogh.
During the 1920s, in the wake of Modigliani's career and spurred on by comments by Andre Salmon crediting hashish and absinthe with the genesis of Modigliani's style, many hopefuls tried to emulate his 'success' by embarking on a path of substance abuse and bohemian excess. Salmon claimed—erroneously—that whereas Modigliani was a totally pedestrian artist when sober,
“...from the day that he abandoned himself to certain forms of debauchery, an unexpected light came upon him, transforming his art. From that day on, he became one who must be counted among the masters of living art.”
While this propaganda served as a rallying cry to those with a romantic longing to be a tragic, doomed artist, these strategies did not produce unique artistic insights or techniques in those who did not already have them.
In fact, art historians suggest that it is entirely possible for Modigliani to have achieved even greater artistic heights had he not been immured in, and destroyed by, his own self-indulgences. We can only speculate what he might have accomplished had he emerged intact from his self-destructive explorations.
Output
During his early years in Paris, Modigliani worked at a furious pace. He was constantly sketching, making as many as a hundred drawings a day. However, many of his works were lost - destroyed by him as inferior, left behind in his frequent changes of address, or given to girlfriends who did not keep them.
He was first influenced by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, but around 1907 he became fascinated with the work of Paul Cézanne. Eventually he developed his own unique style, one that cannot be adequately categorized with other artists.
He met the first serious love of his life, Russian poet Anna Akhmatova, in 1910, when he was 26. They had studios in the same building, and although 21-year-old Anna was recently married, they began an affair. Tall (Modigliani was only 5 foot 5 inches) with dark hair (like Modigliani's), pale skin and grey-green eyes, she embodied Modigliani's aesthetic ideal and the pair became engrossed in each other. After a year, however, Anna returned to her husband.
Experiments with sculpture
In 1909, Modigliani returned home to Livorno, sickly and tired from his wild lifestyle. Soon he was back in Paris, this time renting a studio in Montparnasse. He originally saw himself as a sculptor rather than a painter, and was encouraged to continue after Paul Guillaume, an ambitious young art dealer, took an interest in his work and introduced him to sculptor Constantin Brancusi.
Although a series of Modigliani's sculptures were exhibited in the Salon d'Automne of 1912, he abruptly abandoned sculpting and focused solely on his painting.
Question of influences
In Modigliani's art, there is evidence of the influence of primitive art from Africa and Cambodia which he may have seen in the Musée de l'Homme, but his stylisations are just as likely to have been the result of his being surrounded by Mediaeval sculpture during his studies in Northern Italy (there is no recorded information from Modigliani himself, as there is with Picasso and others, to confirm the contention that he was influenced by either ethnic or any other kind of sculpture). A possible interest in African tribal masks seems to be evident in his portraits. In both his painting and sculpture, the sitters' faces resemble ancient Egyptian painting in their flat and masklike appearance, with distinctive almond eyes, pursed mouths, twisted noses, and elongated necks. However these same chacteristics are shared by Medieval European sculpture and painting.
Modigliani painted a series of portraits of contemporary artists and friends in Montparnasse: Chaim Soutine, Moise Kisling, Pablo Picasso, Diego Rivera, Marie "Marevna" Vorobyev-Stebeslka, Juan Gris, Max Jacob, Blaise Cendrars, and Jean Cocteau, all sat for stylized renditions.
At the outset of World War I, Modigliani tried to enlist in the army but was refused because of his poor health.
The war years
Known as Modì, which roughly translates as 'morbid' or 'moribund', by many Parisians, but as Dedo to his family and friends, Modigliani was a handsome man, and attracted much female attention.
Women came and went until Beatrice Hastings entered his life. She stayed with him for almost two years, was the subject for several of his portraits, including Madame Pompadour, and the object of much of his drunken wrath.
When the British painter Nina Hamnett arrived in Montparnasse in 1914, on her first evening there the smiling man at the next table in the café introduced himself as Modigliani; painter and Jew. They became great friends.
In 1916, Modigliani befriended the Polish poet and art dealer Leopold Zborovski and his wife Anna.
Jeanne Hébuterne
The following summer, the Russian sculptor Chana Orloff introduced him to a beautiful 19-year-old art student named Jeanne Hébuterne who had posed for Foujita. From a conservative bourgeois background, Hébuterne was renounced by her devout Roman Catholic family for her liaison with the painter, whom they saw as little more than a debauched derelict, and, worse yet, a Jew. Despite her family's objections, soon they were living together, and although Hébuterne was the love of his life, their public scenes became more renowned than Modigliani's individual drunken exhibitions.
On December 3, 1917, Modigliani's first one-man exhibition opened at the Berthe Weill Gallery. The chief of the Paris police was scandalized by Modigliani's nudes and forced him to close the exhibition within a few hours after its opening.
After he and Hébuterne moved to Nice, she became pregnant and on November 29, 1918 gave birth to a daughter whom they named Jeanne (1918-1984).
Nice
During a trip to Nice, conceived and organized by Leopold Zborovski, Modigliani, Tsuguharu Foujita and other artists tried to sell their works to rich tourists. Modigliani managed to sell a few pictures but only for a few francs each. Despite this, during this time he produced most of the paintings that later became his most popular and valued works.
During his lifetime he sold a number of his works, but never for any great amount of money. What funds he did receive soon vanished for his habits.
In May of 1919 he returned to Paris, where, with Hébuterne and their daughter, he rented an apartment in the rue de la Grande Chaumière. While there, both Jeanne Hébuterne and Amedeo Modigliani painted portraits of each other, and of themselves.
Last days
Although he continued to paint, Modigliani's health was deteriorating rapidly, and his alcohol-induced blackouts became more frequent.
In 1920, after not hearing from him for several days, his downstairs neighbor checked on the family and found Modigliani in bed delirious and holding onto Hébuterne who was nearly nine months pregnant. They summoned a doctor, but little could be done because Modigliani was dying of the then-incurable disease tubercular meningitis.
Modigliani died on January 24, 1920. There was an enormous funeral, attended by many from the artistic communities in Montmartre and Montparnasse.
Hébuterne was taken to her parents' home, where, inconsolable, she threw herself out of a fifth-floor window two days after Modigliani's death, killing herself and her unborn child. Modigliani was interred in Père Lachaise Cemetery. Hébuterne was buried at the Cimetière de Bagneux near Paris, and it was not until 1930 that her embittered family allowed her body to be moved to rest beside Modigliani.
Modigliani died penniless and destitute—managing only one solo exhibition in his life and giving his work away in exchange for meals in restaurants. Had he lived through the 1920s when American buyers flooded Paris, his fortunes might well have changed. Since his death his reputation has soared. Nine novels, a play, a documentary and three feature films have been devoted to his life.
In the far reaches of northern Scotland, within a village where time meanders at its own tranquil pace, a series of images unfolds, painting a tableau of life's relentless march amidst the shadows of climate's dismay and the distant rumbles of war that threaten to engulf Europe. It is a Wednesday evening, draped in the quietude of rainfall, a scene reminiscent of an Edward Hopper collection—imbued with solitude, emptiness, yet a profound continuance.
A Poem:
In this hamlet 'neath Scottish skies so wide,
Where the rains whisper and the winds confide,
Looms the spectre of a world in disarray,
Yet within these bounds, life finds its way.
Upon the cusp of night, shadows merge and dance,
In the pub's warm glow, eyes steal a glance.
The hearth's soft crackle, a comforting song,
In this northern retreat, where hearts belong.
The world outside may churn and roar,
With climates wracked and the drums of war.
Yet here we stand, in this time-suspended place,
Where tomorrow's worries are but a trace.
The local pub, our living room, our sphere,
A sanctuary from doubt, from dread, from fear.
We'll return come dusk, as sure as the tide,
In the rhythm of the ordinary, we take pride.
For what are we, but passengers in time,
Through days mundane, through nights sublime?
The question lingers, in the air, it floats,
Is this all there is? In whispers, it denotes.
Yet, as we stand 'neath the gentle pour,
We find beauty in the repeat, in the encore.
For in these moments, life's essence we distill,
In the quiet of the village, in the peace, so still.
A Haiku:
Rain veils the night's face,
Quiet pub bids farewell—
Life's quiet march on.