View allAll Photos Tagged rawemotion
A fantastic way for MBBS students to combine their passion for medicine and social awareness with creative expression at their annual fest! Enacting plays on social themes can be very impactful.
shot during my comparison test of the sigma 135mm f/1.4 art on leica sl3 versus the sony 135mm f/1.8 gm on sony a7rv. full review with sample images now online: arnds.photos/blog/sigma-135-mm-vs-sony-135mm-gm?utm_sourc...
his hand moves through his hair while his eyes stay fixed on the lens. the tattoo catches shadow. the gesture says one thing, the gaze another. he holds both without contradiction. the light carves him from darkness. he allows it.
This image represents a state of active consciousness turned outward.
The gaze is alert, attentive, exposed. It observes the world as it is, without filters, fully aware of the risk involved in opening oneself to the outside. There is no naivety here, only awareness.
The external world appears as a place of possibility and, at the same time, of threat. The gaze does not close itself off, but remains on guard. It is a fragile balance between the desire for connection and the need for self-protection. Here, consciousness does not withdraw or escape; it faces what lies outside, accepting its own vulnerability.
Placed alongside the image of active consciousness turned inward, this work becomes its natural counterpart. The two images enter into dialogue as complementary states: one born from protection, the other from exposure. Two different, yet equally necessary, ways of inhabiting both the world and the self.
it stepped forward without hesitation, as if the world owed it an answer. ears wide, eyes locked, breath quiet — the leash barely mattered. there’s a kind of confidence that only dogs and poets have, the kind that doesn't wait for permission to be seen.
i stood behind them. camera ready. i clicked my tongue—once, then twice. the third time he turned around. i took the shot. the light didn’t flinch. the street held its breath.
my weekly ai post
i tore at the seams and screamed into the dark, where broken things sing louder. every ring, every spike, every breath was rebellion stitched into skin. no gods, no masters — just raw, electric chaos beating inside my ribs, refusing to be still.
created with google gemini
a fleeting moment, stretched wide in laughter, spilling into the air like sunlight breaking free from clouds. her hands clasped in a pause between bursts, the soft blur of the world behind her, the bokeh glowing like tiny stage lights for an unscripted performance.
i’m running a small giveaway on instagram for this image — if you want to join in, you’ll find the details here: instagram.com/arnds.photos
a hand shields, reveals, invites. from behind the fingers, one eye glows with memory, defiance, mischief. a portrait not of a face—but of a presence, in full quiet bloom.
morning light streamed through the window, sharp and golden, carving shapes in the air. two tables away, a man sat still, the lines on his face deep as stories untold. i asked if i could take his portrait. he chuckled, waved me off. "i’m not a good-looking man," he said. nonsense, i told him. the light wasn’t interested in good looks. it loved character, and he had plenty of it. he let me shoot, the glow falling across his weathered features like a map of a life lived. when i showed him the raw frame on my phone, his lips curled into a smile, faint but real. "not bad," he said. he was right—it wasn’t bad. it was honest.
a man, standing against the whispers of an oncoming storm, balances on the edge of the sea. the fishing rod in his hand is steady, but the air feels heavy, charged. the waves glimmer under a dull sky, their rhythm a warning, their pull a promise. in portixol, before the winds came, there was this fleeting quiet. the kind that settles deep in the bones, like a story waiting to be told.
in the labyrinth of palma's streets, i met defiance with a silver mane. the man's eyes, heavy with untold sagas, bore into mineâa storm behind glass. his finger, outstretched, blurred but resolute, spoke louder than words. the light danced gently on his wild beard, a contrast to the sharp lines etched on his face. there was a challenge here, a dare, but also a quiet understanding. this was not just a portrait; it was a declaration.
HERZSCHMERZ rests where it hurts
A weight born from longing, loss, and the ache that comes from feeling too much
Worn close, held tight, and carrying that familiar pull between love and pain
Exclusively at the TMD Event
January 5th to January 31st
i had tried three times. each time in the office, ten shots. all of them were fine, but none of them felt right. andreas v. lochow is a joyful person. thatâs what i wanted to capture. but joy is not something you ask for. it has to happen. so i waited. and then, finally, i made him laugh. and that was the moment.
i’m running a small giveaway on instagram for this image — if you want to join in, you’ll find the details here: instagram.com/arnds.photos
i was walking past a laundromat on calle de hortaleza. saw this man and thought: if only he would turn around. and then, at some point, he did.
"Feeling alone
the army's up the road
salvation á la mode and
a cup of tea.
Aqualung my friend
don't you start away uneasy
you poor old sod,
you see, it's only me." Jethro Tull - Aqualung
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Many thanks for the visit, faves and comments!
Contemplation
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Many thanks for the visits, faves and comments! Have a nice day my friends!
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This image may not be copied, reproduced, distributed, republished, downloaded, displayed, posted or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying and recording without my written consent.
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# A fine, American made, product of anxiety... yes, pure unadulterated stress! beats the big pharma pushers, i suppose (when it's efficacious, that is). although i must hold my nose, whatever it takes, to administer their [censored by the new upstanding administrators/owners of Flickr] toxic...... er, therapeutic drug treatment! Yum! Tastes like uranium enriched grapefruit! Feel like [censored again]! I sure rest comfortably -- perhaps a bit too much -- knowing that America's fine pharma companies are finishing us off in fine, fast style. And for the resilient, we've got big, er, test plans for you! Ypa!
she stood outside the barbershop, cigarette in hand, scrolling through her phone. the man in the poster stared blankly, detached, larger than life but lifeless. i lifted the camera, and she caught me. her eyes narrowed, sharp and unamused. i pressed the shutter anyway. for a second, it felt like she might curse me, but instead, she laughed. i showed her the photo, and her disapproval melted into humor. "good shot," she said, taking another drag. the poster man said nothing.
she sat on a bench, scrolling, exhaling, lost in a thought she didn’t share. the smoke curled between us, vanishing before it could settle. a glance—direct, unreadable, gone in a second. plaça del rosari, a fleeting moment given, not taken.
my weekly ai post
i spat my anger into the cold streets, wore my rage like armor. every sneer was a battle cry, every step a march against silence. behind every crooked brick and broken window, i planted my flag. this is not a smile — it’s a warning
created with google gemini
🌹 Maloe Vansant is a master of raw emotion, transforming the spontaneous turmoil of the soul into breathtaking visual narratives.
Experience her powerful permanent exhibition at Souland Gallery.
See her work: iloveevents.online/maloe-vansant-3/
Beyond Munch, My Scream
A face that screams the pain words cannot hold."
A raw and visceral self-portrait inspired by the emotional power of Munch's The Scream.
This image represents a deeply personal cry — silent, yet deafening — a manifestation of inner turmoil and unspoken truths.
It goes beyond imitation, becoming an authentic expression of my own experience and struggle.
i met him during the procession, standing quietly on the sidelines. no posing, no performance – just presence. every line on his face feels like it belongs there, like it’s earned. his eyes don’t ask for attention, but they hold something steady – years, maybe decades, of showing up, again and again.
this portrait isn’t about drama. it’s about someone who doesn’t need to prove anything.
in the quiet margin of a highway, a pair of pink shoes rests against the weight of a wide sky. there is no movement, no footsteps, no sound — only the memory of presence and the strange stillness that remains. an image that asks more than it answers.
the shoes were set into the existing photo with photoshop and adobe firefly 3.
A face that screams the pain words cannot hold."
A raw and visceral self-portrait inspired by the emotional power of Munch's The Scream.
This image represents a deeply personal cry — silent, yet deafening — a manifestation of inner turmoil and unspoken truths.
It goes beyond imitation, becoming an authentic expression of my own experience and struggle.
the air is thick with quiet. two people sit at a café in madrid, their lives divided by inches of metal and glass. her gaze drifts outward, searching for something the street cannot give her. his focus is on the glow of a phone, a portal to another world. between them sits the weight of unspoken words, heavy and still. the black and white tones stretch the moment, pulling every detail—the texture of the wall, the lines of their coats—into sharp relief. it’s a scene of distance, of connection undone, and of time pressing on without pause.
No curtain, no script—just sound carving its way through cracked walls and soft stares. There’s something sacred in how the streets listen. Some music fades. Some stays etched in the brick long after the last chord falls silent
you look at him — and he already knows.
the expression rests somewhere between defiance and invitation.
the bleached hair glows under soft light, the skin remains real, the eyes do all the talking.
he’s not posing, he’s being.
not louder than he needs to be.
you don’t know what he’s about to say, but you want to wait for it.
Between mustard blooms and intense daylight, she walks with purpose—carrying the weight of a thousand silent stories.
In the heart of Verona, where ancient stones whisper tales of love and tragedy, a man named Luca strummed his weathered guitar. Seated in his wheelchair, he played beneath an archway near the Arena, his music a bittersweet contrast to the hurried footsteps of tourists.
Luca had learned long ago that even the simplest things could be stolen. He secured his few belongings with a chain, a silent barrier against those who saw his misfortune as an easy opportunity. The first time someone had tried to take it, he had fought back, his voice louder than the thief’s greed. But he had learned—music could soothe a heart, but it could not protect an instrument.
And so, as the sun cast golden light upon Verona’s cobblestones, Luca played on. His guitar, though bound in chains, sang with the freedom of a soul that refused to be silenced.
the sand was damp from the morning tide, and the air hung heavy with the scent of salt and seaweed. he leaned forward, bracing himself against the world, his eyes locked on the horizon, as if searching for something just out of reach. the sunday quiet of santa ponça was broken only by the occasional cry of a gull. the beach, normally alive with sun and laughter, was still and waiting. behind him, the sea whispered its endless stories. the kind of stories he carried on his shoulders, each ripple a reminder of something lost, something found.
night in madrid, a gaze cutting through the dark. the city sleeps, but here something burns—maybe a cigarette, maybe a thought. his face holds stories untold, unseen, but felt. raw and unfiltered, like the streets that cradle him.
Influenced by an interpretation of Lee Jeffries’ powerful portrait style, I wanted to explore that same raw, emotional intensity in my own self‑portrait. Facing myself through the lens was humbling — every line and shadow felt like a chapter of my life reflected back at me. I used dramatic window light, a tight close‑up, and heavy black‑and‑white processing to emphasize texture and depth, pushing myself to be as honest in front of the camera as I try to be behind it.
The sun burned down on the pavement of the small festival stage as Naïa closed her eyes, feeling the pulse of the music. Her arms moved in sync with the congas, the maracas in her hands creating a hypnotic sound that captivated the crowd.
Behind her, her bandmate drummed with tireless energy, while Naïa surrendered completely to the moment. The people in front of the stage danced barefoot, laughed, and let the music carry them away. This was her moment—an instant of perfect harmony.
As the last note faded, Naïa opened her eyes. Silence. Then, an explosion of cheers. She smiled. The rhythm of the street had once again touched people's hearts.
there’s a stillness in his expression, as though he’s carrying the burden of time. the man sits in contemplation, earphones hanging loosely, as if the world around him is playing a distant soundtrack to his thoughts. his hand resting on the bottle suggests both patience and weariness, a moment paused in quiet resignation. the subtle texture of his skin and the soft fabric of his shirt add to the humanity in this scene. shadows blend into the soft blur of the background, making it feel as though he's waiting for something unseen, perhaps beyond the frame—lost in the quiet intervals of life, where thoughts can weigh heavier than anything physical.