View allAll Photos Tagged expression
Found an old crusty lens filter in my desk drawer the other day, so I decided to try it out. By no stretch are these my better shots, but interesting nonetheless.
"Aindrita Ray is an Indian film actress, primarily appearing in Kannada films. She made her acting debut in 2007, starring in Meravanige and went on to appear in several commercially successful films, establishing herself as a leading contemporary actress of Kannada cinema. She is perhaps best known for her critically acclaimed performance as Devika, a mentally challenged girl, in Manasaare."
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after doing the compulsory decompression stop the diver can now safely surface. i enjoy taking photos of these moments for the variety of expressions one can get. these images represent the happy moments although there are times when the conditions are really bad, the sea is choppy with strong currents, that there are the occasional nausea and vomiting. i recall one unforgettable moment when one of the diver vomited his dentures off which eventually sank to the bottom forever gone. poor guy he was so disappointed with the incident that everyone tried to perk him up by joking that one day we'll see a sea turtle wearing his dentures and won't that be funny. anyway, he continued the rest of the dives without this dentures and according to him that experience was so uncomfortable
Headshot portrait of a little boy in black and white/sepia looking at the camera with a curious expression on his face.
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Fuji XE-1 w/Nikon 35mm f1.8G - Another picture from the car photoshoot! Throughout the shoot I got some really good shots of the car's driver which was a bonus! This one was one of my favorites because of the natural expression!
"I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me, and my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory, down throw and upheaval, and my effort is their self-expression."
(Dylan Thomas - Welsh poet and writer, 1914–1953)
This man was standing at Nishad Ghat in Varanasi (Benaras) where he came to bath in the holy waters of the Ganges early in the morning.
We could feel a cool breeze and a few drops of water annoucing the eagerly awaited monsoon…
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My friend Carly gave me the idea of having a tea party with my stuffed animals. I thought the dolls would join us as well.
:)
A free Spirit
Mirit Ben-Nun was born in Beer- Sheva in 1966. Over the years she has presented in solo exhibitions and participated in group exhibitions in Israel and around the world.
When she was six, her father was killed in a car accident, leaving behind his wife and two daughters, Mirit and Dana.
Ben-Nun had difficulty concentrating on studies, which caused behavioral problems, and at the age of fourteen she dropped out of the education system and went to work. The colors and writing tools gave her a quiet private space and her own way of surviving. Creativity eased her tumultuous soul.
Until her early 30’s she worked as a telemarketer and for the next fourteen years she doodled and doodled. While talking to customers she filled thousands of pages with lines and dots that resembled hundreds of compressed eggs and seeds which she threw away.
In a large portion of each page she would pick a random word and would write it down over and over while concentrating on her hand movements.
Even then she noticed the rising of her need and obsession as she practiced the endless doodling and writing.
Ben-Nun testifies that the lack of artistic training to paint "correctly" freed her from adhering to the rules of painting and allowed her freedom and spirit of rebellion.
In 1998, she received a bunch of canvases and acrylic paints as a gift from her sister.
She brought the acrylic into her world of lines and dots; she went back to painting women and masks that appeared in her childhood paintings and flooded them with lines and dots without separating body and background.
This is also the moment when Ben-Nun began to refer to herself as a painter.
and when art became the center of her life.
The intense colors in Ben-Nun's paintings sweep the viewer into a sensual experience. The viewer traces the surge of dots and lines formed in packed layers of paint. The movement leads to a kind of female-male hormonal dance within the human body and to a communion with an artistic experience of instinct, passion, conceiving and birth.
Contributing to this experience is the wealth of characteristics reminiscent of tribal art. Ben-Nun merges these with a humorous and kicking contemporary Western Pop art. In the language of unique art, Ben-Nun creates an unconventional conversation between past and present cultures.
It is evident that the paintings emerge from a regenerated need and desire, a force that erupts from her soul, a subconscious survival instinct to which she cannot or does not want to resist.
Ben-Nun places women at the center stage where they are her work focus. The paintings obsessively deal with the existential experience of being a woman in the world. A few of the women's paintings carry feminist slogans stressing the women's struggle in society, a critique for being held to perfection and being required to perform as a model of "beauty, purity and motherhood". Feminism pulsates in Ben-Nun's psyche, through her diverse female images and the play between beauty and unsightliness; Ben-Nun assimilates the consciousness of feminine possibility, of not being "perfect", of being powerful, influential, and outside social norms. This mandates a departure from acceptable limitations where Ben-Nun creates a new world of free spirit for women.
Mirit Ben-Nun is a mother of three and the grandmother of three grandchildren.
Mirela Tal
Nestled in the Balkans and draped in a fine powder of snow, the sovereign nation of Modora has survived for nearly four hundred years. It survived the great ravages of a Vandal Savage on the warpath, stood strong through innumerable winters, and joined the resistance when it was taken by Nazi forces during World War Two.
And although it had seen better days, the small nation still managed to crawl along. It’s inhabitants were content, and its economy stabilizing.
It would be astounding however, it Modora survived what happened next.
The green light we’ve all come to expect tears through the atmosphere, and dissipates in the cobblestone Modora streets. In its wake stands six figures in outlandish costumes. Their presence causes confused glances from the passerby.
Sonar: Ah, what is the expression? Home is the sweetest home?
Answer, behind him, still struggles in the grips of the Multiplexes.
Answer: Sure, if you’re an invalid.
Sonar turns and smiles. He takes a few steps towards Answer.
Sonar: Ah, our delightful Mister Answer. Welcome to my home. What do you think?
Answer spits: Looks like every other stick-built pile of mud the Europeans are so well known for.
Angle-Man: Who’s being racist now, eh?
Sonar: Quiet please, Bend.
Answer: You may as well just kill me now metalfingers, otherwise I promise to you I’ll be nothing but hell in a handbasket.
Sonar laughs: No, no. For now you remain alive. It is not that I need you, it is that you shall serve as the first public execution under my new rule. Mister Black, please release him. He can do no harm here. However, If he tries anything, do tear him limb from limb.
At this he ascends, rising up into the air above the ancient, shingled rooves. Below, Angle-Man, Agent Orange, and Multiplex watch him rise. The Answer however, glances briefly at Hypnota, and strokes his chin once. Hypnota strokes her own false beard once in return.
Above the rooftops, Sonar takes in the crisp mountain air, extends his arms, smiles, then releases a resounding shriek from the devices in his fingertips. The sound rattles beams, shatters windows, and causes ears to bleed. Somewhere in the distance, an avalanche plummets down a cliffside and crushes an old man’s cabin, sweeping him into sharp rocks.
In the throne room of the Modoran palace, a stained glass window, as old as the nation itself, depicting the great hero Sir Sheldrake slaying the great elder dragon shatters into infinitesimal pieces over Lord Fando’s head.
Fando brushes the glass from his hair. He knows exactly what this means. He’s been keeping up with American news. He knows exactly who’s here. And he does not want him living. Fando calls for his captain of the guard, and waits a full three minutes for him to clomp into the throne room. Madly, wildly, Fando begins to shout orders at him, until finally, the captain obliges and clomps back out. Steaming, Fando returns to his quarters and readies for battle.
On the streets, passerby have begun to flee in panic. Sonar descends again.
Sonar: Now, we are here to retake the throne of Modora. The throne that rightfully belongs to me. You will do as I say, and go where I point. Any disobedience, and you will be without head. And Mister Answer, do try and keep alive.
Answer grimaces under his mask, but uncharacteristically, says nothing. His silence throws Sonar off for a second, but the sounds of gunfire and the soft pat of bullets embedding themselves in the nearby building brings him back around.
Sonar: Please, for the sake of myself and your own health, try not to damage the buildings.
At that, Multiplex expands into six more of himself, three of which catch bullets. The Squad behind him bolts in all directions, and before he knows it, he’s diving into an alley. He knew he shouldn’t have tried to swipe those diamonds, he just couldn’t help himself, and now, thanks to Firestorm and his own lack of impulse control, he had an arm with a third degree burn, a bomb in his neck, and he was here in this random micro-town in the middle of nowhere. He hadn’t even checked to see if that permanent brand old hot-head had gave him extended to his dupes, and frankly, he was afraid to find out. Instead, he just sat in the corner, pumping out dupes after dupe as Sonar shouted overhead for more manpower. Danton Black’s life was one long string of regrets, and being here was certainly one of them. He shuddered every time another of him died.
Agent Orange’s eyes light up in fire. He watches has the thatch and bamboo huts go up in flame. Screaming children, thick little fists covering their eyes, roll in the steaming mud as women weep and bawl, and men shriek in pain, their limbs burned off by liquid heat. Behind him, the apaches strafe the tree line, causing the palm trees to go up in a molten ball of chemical death. He grins and clicks his flamethrower to life. Casually, he lights a wounded Vietcong on fire, and sighs contentedly as the man shrieks and his skin sizzles. Somewhere, someone is shouting for more water, more whiskey, more water, and another man wants to go surfing. Agent Orange does not miss California, and does not miss his friends. The coast life was never for him. But this stage, this theater of war, was everything he’d ever need.
Angle-Man ports forward, glad he at least brought a knife which rapidly finds itself embedded in the blue-uniformed chest of a Modoran solider. He ports just to the left so another is riddled with his own comrades’ bullets. He’s thrilled, honestly. Thrilled that he’s made it this long. That he never lost more than those two fingers. Thrilled that finally, finally his time served on this godforsaken outfit payed off. When Wladon had offered him this deal after that mess with that Witch woman, he was all too eager to accept. He expected it to happen sooner, but he understood why Wladon didn’t want Lawton or Harkness along. The bastards. Bend for one was glad to be rid of them. Two soldiers are sliced in half by his angle, and another gets the bullet treatment himself. It’s an old method, but tried and true. Yes, Bend was thrilled to be rid of Lawton and Harkness. Thrilled to be released from Waller’s iron grasp. Bend was looking forward to ruling this country.
The shells and bullets, and the one tank the Modoran Soldiers employed, were not unfamiliar to Hypnota. She was surprised that a nation of this size only had one tank, but she was also thankful. Another shell imploded to the right of her, and snapped her back to that crackling, resounding sound that took her brother. She touched her fingers to her head briefly, and sent a pulsating force through it quickly to move the memories past. She had to stop doing that, she noted, or the damage would be irreparable. Behind her, The Answer was cursing violently and creatively and nursing a bullet wound to the left shoulder. It was not the worst she had seen. As loud as he was, he would be all right. They nodded to each other, then Hypnota darted from her hiding place, blasting psychic waves towards a few nearby soldiers. She grimaced as the soldiers all turned and shot each other in the head. When oh when, she wondered, would all the violence end.
Sonar laughs aloud has he bursts the eardrums and shatters the brain matter of all the gunmen around him. He feels a hint of remorse, these were his subjects, his personal guard after all, and it was a shame to spill Modoran blood, but they were traitors, lapdogs of Fando, and thus, they had to be put down. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Hypnota leap onto the army’s tank, and suggest the soldiers open the hatch, to which they oblige. To his left, Bend and Aparo burn and slash through the guards, and all around him, Multiplex surges through the streets. He breathes in the harsh smoke of battle, then rises towards the remains of a once magnificent stained-glass window. A hail of bullets explodes towards him, but he bats them away with pure sound. Gently, he lands on his tip-toes, then begins to strut forward, and with a horrid set of screeches, explodes the heads of Fando’s guards with pure shockwaves of sound.
Fando: не не! Познавам те, семейството ти е мъртво! немилост!
Sonar blasts the weapons from his hands, then grabs Fando’s head between his own.
Sonar: изглежда, че грешите
With one last resounding sound, Fando’s head is crushed by solid sound waves., his final terrified scream drowned out by Sonar’s exhausted apparatuses.
Sonar takes a deep, exhausted breath as Fando’s near-headless body crumples to the floor. He is Sonar no longer as he approaches the throne. He is Bito Wladon, ruler of Modora.
And now none would stand in the way of his rule.
"I am a divine expression of the cosmos. Living in a cycle of impermanence."
#spiritual #energy #shadows #cosmic
Body language speaks volumes! Exploring our femininity through touch and gestures is such a powerful way to tap into and communicate our emotions. The more comfortable we are with ourselves, the more we can generate positive vibes! Lord knows we need more of that these days.
Here's one more pic from my chaise session, courtesy of the brilliant Amanda Richards, who just makes me wanna smile! :-)