View allAll Photos Tagged inks
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a Ruben Ireland inspired piece; kind of really inspired by Inktober as well so I wanted to try and create something that looks almost like Ink.
"Piena è la donna di paure, e vile
contro la forza, e quando vede un ferro;
ma quando, invece, offesa è nel suo talamo,
cuore non c'è del suo piú sanguinario..."
Ink and fab with addicted to ink
SPONSOR: Addicted to Ink
What I am using? : Lauryn - Addicted to Ink
Highest form of flattery right here! As photographed at the Totally Radish opening. Many, many thanks to Sasha and Anthony for being nice folks and sharing, and, of course, to Sasha for the Wee Ninja love!
More info and updated pics here:
Ａｋａｎｅ Ｔａｔｔｏｏ Ｕｎｉｓｅｘ．
In-world store:
maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Pillola/4/176/1551
Flickr: www.flickr.com/groups/14609284@N24/
Facebook: www.facebook.com/groups/237888947387932/
Compatible in
* Signature
* Maitreya
* Belleza
* Omega
* BOM 3 tone, Head Omega 3 tone & BoM 3 tone
Follow my blog link for the poem I wrote called Inked Fever...https://wordpress.com/post/jasperjacemirror.home.blog/59
Inked Fever.... By Jasper Mirror
This fever
Has caught me strong on the let
down
trying to hold onto the rain
Falling through fingers to the ground
I’ve buckled on less and
now here I am once again
down on nothingness here
on my knees
Something about you surrounds me here
I want this heat in the
open air to take me there
I will hold your
Head up as the water falls
Down around us
Holding onto a chance that is
Lost and confined in the depths where we hide
Captured and pulled from your embrace
Don’t let me go through life inside of the marry-go-round
Flying from the ground
Caught in these hurricanes
Inside of the eye of our storms
Put me inside of your world
let me show
This piece of me
Standing here
waiting for your heart
the ocean of fear caging us in
tearing us apart
soaking in the water of tears from
hearts easily torn apart
When you reach your shore
Let me hold your fear with my heart
My hands want to show you
Around this wilderness that is me
Our barriers fight against us
If I could keep things here
If I could
Hold you
Until our endless depths find a way
To accept the blackout
The way we are
The night might wake up with the dark
In our hearts
Wake up and feel
the sting
feel the bruise
our hearts awakened in darkness yet
hold onto the rain falling
from our hands
a two-sided emotion-filled midnight in
the wilderness that I found
in your arms
Hold onto promises of what could be
In the moments when we feel the implosion in your heart
Take me out of this black ink well,
mark your song all around me
Tattoo the notes in my heart
Keep the black
rewrite it because we are
more than our blackened hearts
By Jasper Mirror
Using a small plastic fishtank with black background, flash above (yong nuo triggers) with 2 x 500w work lamps at the corners. Get fresh cream, add food colours/dyes, get a small syringe and you are set. Shutter sync max speed of 1/200s, ISO100 and variable aperture (ETTR) and see what happens. Side lighting really helps showing 3D objects
A lot of Lightroom manipulation especially changing hue/saturation and luminance.
Simple cleanup but need to do it regularly as the water gets pretty dirty quickly.
Improvements
-:short/sharp quirts and shots quickly => need to shoot at the same time as pushing the syringe.
- stronger colours... have bought Liquidex inks which are intense but cleanup will be tricky ie not in the kitchen sink
- thinner syringe ie with thick needle might also be better
- better angle for side lighting as the shot was dark underneath.
These mushrooms are good eating - until they go like this!! The black ink used to be used for writing legal documents, I believe. This and the shape of the young fungus gives it the name "Lawyer's wig". They are also called "Shaggy ink cap" or Coprinus comata.
© Susannah Relf All Rights Reserved
Unauthorized use or reproduction for any reason is prohibited
This one was totally inspire by Terry (powerbooktrance)
He is getting a brand new piece of art. Now wood is getting a very similar one. You can check Terry's Here
Macro Monday project - 11/24/08
"Tools & Utensils”
119/365
Imagine for a minute that our words write themselves onto our skin in indelible ink. Every sound we utter leaves a permanent mark, visible to all. And then imagine that it is not just spoken words but our thoughts, too. Everything you ever think, displayed for all to see. Do you think it would make us more honest? Or do you think we would just get used to ignoring what people have written on their skins? Or do you think it would make us more understanding? Or more judgemental?
A hobby of mine, sketching. Something I should do every day but never seem to get around to. Some of my sketches are in my Flickr photostream. If you want to see more they're at douglasthayer.blogspot.com .
flummoxed screengrab, A9 detail, The New York Times (Tuesday, October 29, 2024),
the why I like printed newspaper,
I've said before.
scanned, considered in Photoshop CS3 (ca 2007), on a laptop unknown to the cybersphere for 10+ years, and abandoned as captured here
aside —
that newspaper seems to me now utterly irrelevant.
so much gotcha ink on so much outrage, umbrage, offended sensibilities
20241114
2020-09-06, Day 2
A deep carpet of red- and golden-tinged dwarf birch and willows lines both sides of the milky blue, glacial waters of Dinwoody Creek as it flows under Ink Wells Bridge, Fitzpatrick Wilderness, Wind River Range, Wyoming.
After saying 'Dinwoody' enough times, I gradually morphed the word into 'Dim Woody', and my hiking partner and I then began to develop the tale of Old Dim Woody whose spirit still roams these parts. Without screens or responsibilities, and with enough time on our hands doing nothing but walking through beautiful country, the mind rapidly unspools into wanton ridiculousness. It seemed likely that Old Dim Woody was a tad fond of his sipping whiskey, and when his spirits were high and besotted, he was prone to bouts of poor decision making. Things only got worse when a neighbor's mare kicked him in the pate one night when the rye was particularly enchanting and he mistook her for a spittoon.
One September after this unfortunate event, an autumn snow-storm blew in when Old Dim Woody was camped at Ink Wells. Sometime during the night his pony became infected with a bit of madness and threatened to break its hobble. The hapless man tried to calm his hoofed companion but to no avail: Dim Woody was never too meticulous about maintenance, and the hobble leather was old and rotted. The pony broke free and headed over the bridge and upstream through the forest at an impressive speed for one with such stubby legs. In fact, its diminutive stature may have helped it avoid some of the boughs already pressed low by the accumulating snow as it heedlessly fled upward toward the headwaters. Pondering the situation for perhaps too-brief a time, Old Dim Woody slapped his battered hat onto his dented head, invigorated his mind with another dram of rye, pushed through the flap of his tent, and began to follow the already-filling tracks of his erstwhile steed.
The tracks wound ever higher and the temperature was cold. Not quite cold enough to tingle and freeze the nose hairs upon the inhale, but cold enough that his toes became numb once the snow that kept knocking into the tops of his boots eventually overwhelmed the capacity of his feet to produce heat. The pony's tracks were faint but continually bore upward, past timberline and toward the giant cirque of peaks that held the glacier that fed the creek. If he stopped for too long, he shivered, sometimes violently. It was difficult to move through the rocks once the snow hid the deep cracks between them. He discovered that the coefficient of static friction between his boots and the icy boulders was perilously low. Once, his foot became tightly wedged between two large, immovable stones and it took him several increasingly panicky minutes to extricate it. The sky was filled with snow and then a surprise clap of thunder sobered him up as waves of kettle-drum sound crashed amongst the ice-clad peaks. The lightning followed immediately and was so bright it lit up the atmosphere. It was like being deep underwater beneath a violent falls under the dazzling sun, bright snow bubbles everywhere and impossible to tell which way was up.
Nobody knows exactly what happened to Old Dim Woody on that fateful night. His empty tent was discovered by some trappers seeking late-season beaver a month or so later. There were fresh pony tracks over the bridge and horse dung inside the tent. The small cache of oats that Old Dim Woody kept in a can near the wood-stove had been raided. They say the moaning wind of the first winter storm is the sound of Dim Woody howling amongst the rocks, looking for tracks and pining for another dram.
Droppings of black drawing ink falling into a cup full of water make for a dramatic and graphical scene.