View allAll Photos Tagged existentialism
"Huis Clos" Play Rehearsal In Progress. Follow us www.mesmeriseme.co.uk/what-is-hell, twitter.com/#!/HuisClos_2011, www.facebook.com/pages/Huis-Clos-MesmeriseMe-2011/1212970...
Who are Messiah Foundation International?
We are sheer spiritualists and we believe in God and equality among human beings. We don't follow any specific religion.
All are equal in the eyes of God. Most people believe in God though their expression of belief may differ. We understand one doesn't have to follow a religion to believe in God.
We understand all human beings are children of God and his love for human beings is non-discriminatory.
-YA
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This photograph was created by Sorin Cerin as the original author and is dedicated to the public domain under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
This image comes from this album:
archive.org/details/POZESorindana/page/n41/mode/2up
I, Sorin Cerin, hereby declare that I am the sole author and copyright owner of this photograph. The photograph was personally taken by me using a self-timer mechanism.
I hereby dedicate this work to the public domain and waive, to the fullest extent permitted by law, all copyright and related rights that I hold in the work worldwide under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
Accordingly, anyone may copy, reproduce, distribute, modify, adapt, publish, transmit, or otherwise use this work for any purpose, including commercial and non-commercial purposes, without requesting permission or providing attribution, to the extent permitted by applicable law.
For identity confirmation and official author correspondence, the authorized email address of Sorin Cerin is:
sorincerin [at] gmail.com
This photograph was created by Sorin Cerin as the original author and is dedicated to the public domain under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
Archival source associated with this photograph:
archive.org/details/sorin-cerin-le-24-avril-2010
I, Sorin Cerin, hereby declare that I am the sole author and copyright owner of this photograph. The photograph was personally taken by me using a self-timer mechanism.
I hereby dedicate this work to the public domain and waive, to the fullest extent permitted by law, all copyright and related rights that I hold in the work worldwide under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
Accordingly, anyone may copy, reproduce, distribute, modify, adapt, publish, transmit, or otherwise use this work for any purpose, including commercial and non-commercial purposes, without requesting permission or providing attribution, to the extent permitted by applicable law.
The official author address of Sorin Cerin for identity confirmation is: sorincerin [at] gmail.com
"Huis Clos" Play Rehearsal In Progress. Follow us www.mesmeriseme.co.uk/what-is-hell, twitter.com/#!/HuisClos_2011, www.facebook.com/pages/Huis-Clos-MesmeriseMe-2011/1212970...
This photograph was created by Sorin Cerin as the original author and is dedicated to the public domain under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
This image comes from this album:
archive.org/details/POZESorindana/page/n41/mode/2up
I, Sorin Cerin, hereby declare that I am the sole author and copyright owner of this photograph. The photograph was personally taken by me using a self-timer mechanism.
I hereby dedicate this work to the public domain and waive, to the fullest extent permitted by law, all copyright and related rights that I hold in the work worldwide under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
Accordingly, anyone may copy, reproduce, distribute, modify, adapt, publish, transmit, or otherwise use this work for any purpose, including commercial and non-commercial purposes, without requesting permission or providing attribution, to the extent permitted by applicable law.
For identity confirmation and official author correspondence, the authorized email address of Sorin Cerin is:
sorincerin [at] gmail.com
This photograph was created by Sorin Cerin as the original author and is dedicated to the public domain under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
This image comes from this album:
archive.org/details/POZESorindana/page/n41/mode/2up
I, Sorin Cerin, hereby declare that I am the sole author and copyright owner of this photograph. The photograph was personally taken by me using a self-timer mechanism.
I hereby dedicate this work to the public domain and waive, to the fullest extent permitted by law, all copyright and related rights that I hold in the work worldwide under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
Accordingly, anyone may copy, reproduce, distribute, modify, adapt, publish, transmit, or otherwise use this work for any purpose, including commercial and non-commercial purposes, without requesting permission or providing attribution, to the extent permitted by applicable law.
For identity confirmation and official author correspondence, the authorized email address of Sorin Cerin is:
sorincerin [at] gmail.com
Two figures stand before a world that is not quite there—
watching light become image, and image become memory.
Their backs turn toward the camera, yet toward something deeper:
a space where presence dissolves into shadow,
where the real and the projected begin to overlap.
Perhaps photography is not about capturing what exists,
but about listening to what disappears.
In the silence between two bodies,
the screen, and the fading light,
a question remains:
Are we looking at the image,
or is the image quietly looking back at us?
This photograph was created by Sorin Cerin as the original author and is dedicated to the public domain under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
archive.org/details/sorin-cerin-en-2003
I, Sorin Cerin, hereby declare that I am the sole author and copyright owner of this photograph. The photograph was personally taken by me using a self-timer mechanism.
I hereby dedicate this work to the public domain and waive, to the fullest extent permitted by law, all copyright and related rights that I hold in the work worldwide under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
Accordingly, anyone may copy, reproduce, distribute, modify, adapt, publish, transmit, or otherwise use this work for any purpose, including commercial and non-commercial purposes, without requesting permission or providing attribution, to the extent permitted by applicable law.
The official author address of Sorin Cerin for identity confirmation is: sorincerin [at] gmail.com
Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean And the pleasant land. Little deeds of kindness, Little words of love, Help to make earth happy Like the heaven above. For more, follow The Existentialist on Facebook. ift.tt/2qDMoiC Tags: #existential, #existentialist, #existentialism, #life, #lifelessons, #lifequotes, #procrastination, #perfection, #perfect, #wisdom, #quote, #quotes, #qotd, #quoteoftheday, #YourQuote, #Mumbai, #indian, #poetry, #poetsofig, #poetrycommunity, #motivationalquotes, #inspirationalquotes, #motivation, #inspiration, #justdoit, #carpediem, #yolo, #inspiringquotes, #instapoetry, #instawriters.. Check out this post on Instagram! ift.tt/2shlL4n.
The quartz boulder marking the grave of Ralph Waldo Emerson .. writer - philosopher - teacher in the Emerson plot. His grandfather was an eyewitness to the Concord Bridge battle from the Deacon's Manse.
Silence is often mistaken for emptiness because it does not announce itself in the ways noise does. It does not press forward with argument. It does not demand recognition through spectacle. It does not insist on its own meaning. For that reason, many people experience silence first as lack: lack of voice, lack of interruption, lack of event, lack of reply. But lived experience teaches something more difficult. Silence is rarely mere absence. It has texture, pressure, contour, and consequence. It shapes the soul even when the soul does not yet know how to read what is happening. This image turns toward that deeper reality. The room is still. The chair remains slightly off-center. The lamp gives only partial illumination. A book rests where a person might have sat moments before. Nothing overt occurs. And yet the scene does not feel vacant. It feels inhabited by significance not yet articulated.
That structure belongs deeply to the lived-world of Confessions to the Empty Chair. The book does not treat silence as a blank interval between meaningful events. It treats silence as one of the places where meaning most forcefully gathers. Again and again, its world reveals that what is not said may exercise more power than what is spoken. A room can preach without words. A withheld answer can shape consciousness more than a lecture. A pause can expose a person more deeply than a confrontation. The soul often discovers that silence is not the opposite of revelation. It is one of revelation’s most difficult modes.
Phenomenologically, silence matters because human beings do not merely live among sounds. They live among atmospheres. An atmosphere is not reducible to a single object or statement. It is the felt structure of a space as encountered by a perceiving self. In this image, the room becomes such an atmosphere. The chair is not merely furniture. The book is not merely an object. The light is not merely illumination. Together they gather into a field of significance. One senses recent presence, withheld speech, lingering thought, unfinished inwardness. None of these are directly pictured as events, yet they are given in the scene as meaningful possibilities. This is one of the key truths of silence: it does not usually communicate by direct statement. It communicates by making a world available in which certain recognitions begin to dawn.
That is why the image avoids ghostliness or melodrama. Silence does not need supernatural effects in order to feel charged. Ordinary stillness is enough. In Confessions to the Empty Chair, some of the most decisive moments occur not when something visually extraordinary intrudes, but when the ordinary ceases to feel neutral. A room becomes morally dense. A chair becomes emblematic. A private stillness becomes a site of exposure. This is because the self does not approach silence as a blank consciousness. It brings memory, fear, longing, guilt, expectation, and spiritual hunger into the quiet. Once there, these interior contents are no longer drowned out by motion and noise. Silence permits what had been concealed by busyness to become audible in another register.
Psychologically, this image touches the discomfort many people feel when external stimulation recedes. Noise often protects us from encounter. Distraction keeps the inward life from cohering too sharply. Constant motion allows the self to postpone interpretation. Silence removes some of those protections. It does not always tell us something new, but it often forces us to hear what had already been there. That is one reason silence can feel oppressive to an unprepared soul and clarifying to a soul ready for truth. The same quiet can be experienced as emptiness, judgment, invitation, or rest, depending on the condition of the one inhabiting it. Silence is not inert. It interacts with the interior life of the hearer. It reveals by resonance.
There is also a theological depth here. In spiritual life, silence is frequently misunderstood in two opposite ways. Some treat it as proof of abandonment, as though the absence of immediate answer meant the absence of meaning. Others romanticize it too quickly, reducing all quiet to serenity or divine consolation. Confessions to the Empty Chair resists both simplifications. It understands that silence can wound, summon, expose, purify, unsettle, and deepen. Divine silence is not identical with emotional emptiness. Existential quiet is not identical with peace. A person may sit in an apparently calm room while undergoing severe inward reckoning. Yet that very reckoning may be the beginning of truer life. Silence does not flatter. It often strips away illusion first.
The empty chair at the center of the image intensifies this insight. A chair implies relation. It suggests a body that might sit, a conversation that might occur, a witness who might remain. Yet here the chair is unoccupied, and its unoccupied state becomes meaningful rather than merely negative. The absent sitter is not the only significance. The greater significance lies in how the scene asks the viewer to reckon with what remains when the expected voice is gone. The book on the chair suggests that words exist, but they are closed. Speech is possible, but not presently delivered. Meaning has not vanished; it has withdrawn into another form. The room becomes a place where silence bears what language has not yet unfolded.
In the broader world of the book, this is one of the recurring disciplines of consciousness: learning to distinguish between emptiness and unannounced significance. Much of life is misread because the soul expects meaning to arrive loudly. It wants revelation to be unmistakable, immediate, and emotionally legible. But many of the most formative truths arrive quietly, through atmosphere, delay, stillness, and the slow pressure of what does not explain itself at once. Silence is therefore not merely the absence of content. It is often the medium in which subtler content becomes possible.
“Silence Was Doing More Than I Knew” names that belated recognition. At first, the quiet may seem uneventful. Later, one realizes that the stillness had been shaping thought, clarifying desire, exposing fear, and preparing understanding all along. The room had not been empty in the way one first supposed. Something was taking place there beneath the threshold of easy narration. That is the burden and gift of silence. It does not always tell us what it is doing while it is doing it. But afterward, if one has learned how to see, one may discover that the deepest work began precisely where nothing seemed to be happening.
11 hour painting after stopping the thesis on existentialism.
If colors and brightness push forward and back, I wanted to contradict that with overlapping the opposite way.
Attention is often treated as a neutral faculty, as though it were merely the mind’s flashlight cast upon an otherwise unchanged world. But attention is never that innocent. What we dwell upon does not simply occupy our sight; it disciplines it. It trains perception by teaching the soul what to treat as central, what to ignore, what to magnify, and what to render peripheral. This image turns toward that formative power. The room is dim, almost withdrawn, while one illuminated object gathers the man’s gaze and quietly governs the scene. He does not appear frantic or overwhelmed. He appears oriented. That is the deeper matter. The object before him is not merely being viewed. It is becoming a center around which his field of perception is reorganized.
That structure belongs deeply to the lived-world of Confessions to the Empty Chair. The book repeatedly shows that a human being does not become what he explicitly worships only in overtly religious terms. He also becomes what he habitually attends to. Attention is a moral and existential act long before it is a philosophical theme. The self is shaped by repeated acts of looking. What receives sustained notice begins to exert formative pressure. It enters the architecture of desire, memory, interpretation, and expectation. In that sense, attention is not passive observation. It is apprenticeship. The soul learns its world by lingering, and what it lingers over leaves marks.
Phenomenologically, this image concerns the way a focal point discloses and conceals simultaneously. To attend is always to select, and selection is never costless. The illuminated object clarifies one region of the world while dimming the rest. What falls outside the beam does not cease to exist, but it loses practical reality for the one who has been captured by a narrower horizon. The man’s face receives the upward glow of what he is watching, and that detail matters because it shows attention becoming inscription. He is not only looking at something. He is being lit by it. His features are being configured by the source that has claimed his gaze. This is not merely visual. It is ontological in miniature. What holds our attention begins to cast its light upon us, determining not only what we see but how we stand in relation to everything else.
In Confessions to the Empty Chair, this is one of the book’s most serious undercurrents. The struggle of a life is not always first visible in decisions. It is often visible in fixations. What one returns to inwardly, what one rehearses, what one cannot stop contemplating, what one uses to soothe, excite, justify, or escape—these reveal the actual liturgies of the self. The book understands that attention forms a hidden economy. A person may profess one order of values while actually kneeling, inwardly, before another center. He may claim to seek truth while feeding on distraction, claim to long for communion while training himself upon substitutes, claim to desire the good while repeatedly gazing at what diminishes him. In this way, attention becomes one of the most revealing dimensions of a life because it shows not merely declared belief, but functional devotion.
Psychologically, attention is formative because consciousness cannot give itself everywhere with equal intensity. What is repeatedly foregrounded acquires emotional density. Neural pathways are not the whole story, but they are part of it. Habituation of gaze becomes habituation of significance. The mind learns what to expect, what to crave, what to monitor, and what to dismiss. Over time, this does not simply influence mood. It shapes identity. One becomes a certain kind of perceiver. The world appears according to the disciplines one has undergone. A person trained by resentment sees affronts everywhere. A person trained by lust sees bodies differently. A person trained by fear reads threat into ambiguity. A person trained by reverence notices what the hurried self would miss. Attention is therefore not an inert channel through which reality passes. It is a pattern of formation that configures reality’s apparent meaning.
This is why the title matters so much. “It Shaped What I Could See” does not say merely that the object occupied the man’s time. It says that his capacity for perception itself was being schooled by the thing he faced. Such a statement carries theological weight. In the deeper traditions of moral and spiritual reflection, worship is not only what one confesses with lips or performs in explicitly sacred settings. Worship is what organizes love, gaze, trust, and sacrifice. Whatever becomes the practical center of one’s orientation begins to function as lord of the field. It need not be grand. It need only become central. Confessions to the Empty Chair understands this with unsettling precision. The soul is always being bent by its centers, whether worthy or unworthy. What it kneels before inwardly determines what sort of world it is able to inhabit.
The dimness of the room intensifies the point because it reveals how totalizing attention can become. Everything outside the immediate object recedes into secondary status. The environment is still present, but no longer decisive. Such narrowing is not always evil; attention can also be the condition of love, craft, prayer, and serious thought. But the image is interested in the ambiguity of this power. To be oriented is necessary for human life. The question is never whether one will be oriented, but by what. The soul cannot avoid giving itself to something. Its eyes will learn to bend somewhere. The danger arises when the center one has chosen—or the center that has quietly chosen one—begins to train perception away from reality rather than into it.
Within the world of the book, this makes attention one of the hidden battlegrounds of human becoming. The great crises of a life are not only dramatic moral episodes. They are also the long disciplines of seeing that precede those episodes. What a person attends to in secret, what he returns to in boredom, what he stares at when left unguarded, what he allows to hold him—these are not trivial habits. They are seeds of future worlds. They prepare what will later feel obvious, desirable, justified, or inevitable.
In the end, this image does not condemn looking. It reveals its seriousness. The man sits in the dark, not merely observing but being formed under a particular light. That is the human condition in miniature. We are always under some illumination. We are always learning from what we behold. And what we behold, if given enough time and trust, does more than occupy our vision. It teaches us what the world is for. It trains the range of what we can see. It shapes not only our choices, but the very horizon within which choices become imaginable.