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Europe, Scotland, Western Isles, North Uist, a little person walking alone in the vast tranquility of Clachan Sands.
persone fotografate qua e là .. senza domandare il permesso.
Se qualcuno si riconosce e non ha piacere, mi faccia sapere e cancello subito la foto
Street - photography on the beach
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Gingerbread decorating today; these are Sophie's. Mine looked like a badly organised gingerbread zombie apocalypse.
As every intelligent person knows, Pop Art accounts for three distinct periods.
1. Starving Time. The interesting and fruitful period when a young but already genial artist makes his or her first paintings - the gratest masterpieces of all time. Everything is good but no money to buy some food.
2. Soup Era. This is when a young but already genial artist sells his first piece of great art, or robs a bank (I'm not sure which event has a greater mathematical probability), or just borrows some bucks from a mediocre and worthless person and buys some cans of soup. Of course, the artist documents such a great and rare event (of having canned soup). Many hungry artists follows the father-founder of Pop Art and document their food, drinks, whatever eatable, and personal effects too.
3. After The Lunch. A sated, full-bellied artist doesn't need soup cans for the time being, so he entertains himself right after the lunch, for instance, the way this photo shows. Finally the artist becomes, out of the blue, famous. He has a lot of social commitments now, so he has no free time to make good art. But he is rich now, and that is the Happy End of the story. I wonder if this photo can repeat the success of the artist? What do you think? Feel free to express your opinion in comments.
He stood on the edge of the world, a lone figure suspended between sky and stone. Before him sprawled New Zealand's Southern Alps, their peaks — Poseidon, Sarpedon, Amphion — rising like silent arguments carved from light and ice. The glacier unfurled its pale tongue, an ancient current arrested mid-sentence, its surface rippled with the memory of motion. The air shimmered, crystalline and unrepentant, a cold clarity that cut to the marrow.
Lake Agnes lay below, a still pool, dark and sharp as polished obsidian. It absorbed the landscape without a ripple, the reflection a perfect inversion—mountains upside down, the sky swallowed by earth. The scene was a paradox: immensity caught in a whisper, time paused on the brink of collapse. He felt the grass brittle beneath his boots, the wind threading through the crevices of his jacket—a touch neither warm nor cruel, merely indifferent.
For three days he had wrestled through the entrails of the land. The rainforest had closed around him with a suffocating lushness, roots coiling like serpents beneath the moss. Streams foamed with a glacial bite, the waters quick and thoughtless, bruising his ankles as he waded through. Thorned thickets tore at his skin with the intimacy of old grudges. He climbed slopes slick with rain, his body folded into painful angles, the horizon always receding. When he reached this place, the fog had been thick enough to erase the contours of the world. His tent had trembled in the night winds, the cold seeping in like an unwelcome thought.
But then dawn came, unburdened and lucid. The veil lifted, and the mountains revealed themselves in their raw articulation. They did not posture or proclaim—they simply were, immutable and unscripted. The glacier’s silence was more profound than any roar; the peaks did not loom so much as exist beyond scale.
Here, in this distilled emptiness, the trivial machinery of the world he had fled seemed absurd. The restless striving, the ceaseless revolutions of ambition and vanity—all of it shrank to the size of a pebble lost in a chasm. There was no wheel here to turn, no circuit to complete. Only the landscape, bare and relentless in its honesty.
He filled his lungs, the air sharp enough to taste. It was an act of quiet rebellion, this deliberate witnessing. In that breath, he found not freedom, but a dissolution of need. The lines between man and mountain wavered, softened by the sheer scale of indifference. If he stayed long enough, perhaps he too would become part of this tableau—his form dissolving into lichen and shadow, his presence no more than a pause in the wilderness’s endless thought.
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To explore more of these captured moments and woven words, visit the artist and writer at their sanctuary of creation: www.coronaviking.com
Toute personne qui serait en mesure d' apporter la preuve d' un grave préjudice (licenciement, divorce, maladie (?lol?), etc...) du fait de la publication de sa photo dans le cadre de mon projet artistique est priée de me contacter.
Je supprimerais la photo incriminée et ferais cadeau d' un tirage papier, signé.
On n' est pas des sauvages, nondidiou ! ! ! Juste des esthètes...
**All photos are copyrighted. Please don't use without permission**
gbarr566@gmail.com
This person had just finished a beach run and was doing stretching exercises. I thought it would make for unusual silhouette!
All getting too much of Mr Monty.
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Had bf stand on the the bridge. He didn't like it even if you can't see the height when you're standing on it. Arnarstapi, Snæfellsnes, Iceland.
Photo and context are Copyrighted : Gabriella* Copyright © - All rights reserved -
All my photographs, my pictures, my graphics, my drawings, my paintings and material descriptions CAN NOT be REPRODUCER, copied, edited, published, transmitted or uploaded in WEBSITES or BLOGS or other media in any way without my written permission
(Legge n. 633/41 protetta dal diritto d'autore.)
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This was the year I got to spend all day with Monty .. .. most of which, of course, he was asleep... but was a plus point in an otherwise decidedly below average year.
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press 'L' to embiggen in the dark.
if you're visiting paris on a budget, you're seeing a lot of the métro. if i'm not mistaken, this is the exit from tuileries... but not that you can really tell.