View allAll Photos Tagged robust
Tintoretto (Jacopo Robusti - Venice 1518 - 1594) - Crucifixion (1565) - oil on canvas dimensions 518 × 1224 cm. Chapter Room - Scuola Grande di San Rocco - Campo San Rocco - San Polo district Venice
Arbusto robusto con forma de cono que presenta una corola blanca y azul. Es un endemismo canario que se encuentra en todas las islas. Las plantas de Lanzarote y Fuerteventura se diferencian porque sus lóbulos son mayores y más redondeados.
Se trata de un arbusto con forma cónica y ramificaciones que puede alcanzar 2,5 m de altura. La corola generalmente es blanca con listas azules, aunque en ocasiones son violetas, y de tamaño variable. Esta especie presenta una gran capacidad para cruzarse con otras especies del género. Es una planta hermafrodita. En la subespecie purpuriense los lóbulos son de mayor tamaño y más redondeados, y los estigmas (parte donde reciben el polen) más cortos.
A large, robust rusty lark with a short crest, a hefty bill, and a prominent rufous wing panel that is obvious in flight. The Rufous-naped Lark is geographically very variable, and there may be cryptic species nested within this complex. Pairs are resident in open grassland, grassy savanna, woodland, and cultivation. It is most conspicuous in the spring and summer, when it perches up singing a sweet, simple song of 4-5 notes such as “treee-leee-treeloo,” occasionally drooping its wings and jumping with a small flutter, exposing the rufous wings that it shares with some other larks. The similar Red-winged Lark is larger than Rufous-naped Lark and less compact, with a longer tail and blackish patches on the sides of the neck.
Queen Elizabeth II National Park, Uganda. February 2017.
Un robusto tronco de abedul protagoniza esta escena marcada por la primera nevada. Las hojas doradas alfombran el camino, creando un contraste visual intenso con el blanco de la escarcha. La composición guía la mirada hacia un fondo luminoso y neblinoso que sugiere profundidad. Esta imagen captura la transición perfecta entre el otoño y el invierno.
This Voigtländer Vito CLR Luxus was manufactured in Braunschweig (Germany) from 1960 to 1966. It was a 35 mm camera with a rangefinder and a light meter manufactured by Bertram! It is very high quality and robustly built, with many parts elaborately chrome-plated. The perfect 1:1 crystal viewfinder was outstanding, and the Color Skopar 50mm / 2.8 lens also ensured very good images! The manual calls it ‘a precision optical instrument’, and it is still a great pleasure to use the CLR today. It was the top model in the Voigtländer C series!
Robust precipitation in the Yosemite Valley made for beautiful sunrise reflections in Cook's Meadow on a cold winter morning. www.optimalfocusphotography.com
In kaltem Stahl aus Tula-Hand,
Tickt Zeit im tiefen Meeresgrund.
Wo Tentakel sich im Dunkel winden,
Und Riesenkalmare Beute finden.
Die Nadel zuckt, der Druck nimmt zu,
Kein Lichtstrahl stört die ew’ge Ruh’.
Mechanische-Präzision im Schlund der Nacht,
Hat Zeit und Ungeheuer bewacht.
Mechanische UdSSR-Stoppuhren, meist von der russischen Agat-Fabrik (Zlatoust), sind robuste, handaufgezogene Präzisionsinstrumente für Sport, Wissenschaft und Industrie, erkennbar an ihrem klassischen Design mit Chromgehäuse und klarem Zifferblatt, die Zeit in Minuten, Sekunden und Sekundenbruchteilen messen, oft mit 16 Steinen und einer stoßsicheren Mechanik (z.B. Kaliber 4282H), die durch einen Kronenstopper (ein oder zwei Drücker) bedient wird und Pausen stoppen kann. Sie sind für ihre Langlebigkeit bekannt und haben Kultstatus.
Schlüsselmerkmale:
Hersteller: Hauptsächlich Agat (Zlatoust), eine traditionsreiche russische Uhrenfabrik.
Mechanik: Handaufziehbar, oft mit 16 Rubinen, Ankerhemmung, Stoßsicherung.
Funktion: Misst Zeit in Minuten, Sekunden und Sekundenbruchteilen (z.B. 0,2 Sec), mit einem Minuten-Zähler.
Bedienung: Meist über einen einzigen Knopf (Kronenstopper) oder zwei Knöpfe (Start/Stopp/Reset).
Bauweise: Klassisches, oft verchromtes Gehäuse, weißes Zifferblatt mit klaren Skalen.
Einsatz: Sportveranstaltungen, wissenschaftliche Messungen, Industrie.
Besonderheit: Die integrierte Stoßsicherung in einem so robusten Mechanismus war für diese Art von Stoppuhr nicht alltäglich.
Zusammenfassend sind es zuverlässige, analoge Zeitmesser, die durch ihre solide Konstruktion und präzise Mechanik bestechen.
Está rodeada de una muralla imponente y robusta de tres alturas diferentes, con torres defensivas que fueron fundamentales en los años de las Cruzadas. Fue levantada sobre la colina Mokattam, en lo que hoy se denomina Cairo Islámico y actualmente es una de las fortificaciones medievales más importantes y mejor conservadas del mundo.
Está declarada Patrimonio de la Humanidad por la UNESCO desde 1976, año en que se le dio este reconocimiento a todo El Cairo histórico. Fue tan eficaz como punto estratégico de defensa que hasta el siglo XIX funcionó allí la sede del gobierno egipcio, es decir, durante casi 700 años
Mide 15 cm. y pesa 35 grs. Es robusto y cabezón; los dos sexos presentan colores llamativos; el pico es grueso, conspicuo y de color amarillo.
En el macho adulto el área loreal, la frente y la barbilla son negros; el resto de la cabeza, la garganta y el pecho son rojo profundo, que se desvanece en forma abrupta a anaranjado en el pecho y a amarillo con listado verde opaco profuso en la región posterior. La región superior, las alas y la cola son de color verde opaco, separadas del rojo de la cabeza en los lados del cuello mediante una barra vertical blanca azulada. El iris es rojo ladrillo, el pico es amarillo verdoso y las patas son verde oliva.
La hembra muestra la garganta verde pálido y la parte anterior de la coronilla y los lados del cuello anaranjado profundo, que continúa como una faja a través de la parte superior del pecho. El resto de la coronilla es verde ocráceo oscuro, con un tinte anaranjado. Las mejillas y la lista corta sobre el ojo son azul claro, y la parte baja del pecho es verde oliva claro.
Los especímenes inmaduros son similares a los adultos correspondientes, pero con el rojo o anaranjado de la coronilla y el pecho más opaco y menos extenso.
ROBUST AND FAMILIAR SEABIRD, best know for its large and densely packed cliff breeding colonies, seen at Skomer Island, Swims well and dives frequently. It flies on whirring wingbeats, and the relatively narrow wings are also used when swimming underwater . The voice is amazing, utters nasal, growling calls at the breeding colonies. Suffers badly during oil spills, many years ago I took 13 oiled birds, in a short period, from the sea wall at Reculvers, Kent, to be cleaned at the Observatory at Sandwich.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
THANK YOU for your visit, love reading your kind comments, please do stay safe, God bless....
........................Tomx.
============================================
"JESUS loves you!!! yes you !! ask him into your life today!"
Elegantly suspended over the neck of the Pond, Gapstow Bridge is one of the first landmarks to discover after entering the southeast corner of the Park. Its robust beauty is rivaled only by its view: a lush foreground set against a dramatic skyline of Central Park South, which includes the Plaza Hotel and other notable skyscrapers.(www.centralparknyc.org/attractions/gapstow-bridge)
The robust Agapanthus africanus and its numerous cultivars are very common park and garden plants throughout Australia. Typical flower clusters are 150-180mm wide. Equipped with a large underground stem and fleshy root system Agapanthus survives well in fairly dry conditions, along driveways into farm houses for example. It is referred to as 'naturalised'. Because it is almost a garden cliche its striking colours, especially in sunlight, can be forgotten.
La prima attestazione di una struttura fortificata nel luogo di Ripalta risale ad un atto di donazione del 1029, in cui Olderico Manfredi cede all’Abbazia di S. Giusto di Susa “medietatem de alia corte tam de castro e capella…quae Ripalta est nominata...”.
L’aspetto attuale del Castello, pur mantenendo importanti tratti tipicamente medievali, è il frutto delle molte trasformazioni subite dall’edificio nel corso della sua lunga vita.
Dall’XI secolo, periodo in cui il castrum era forse caratterizzato da strutture lignee protette da terrapieni, il Castello si sviluppa, a partire dal XII secolo, intorno ad una robusta torre rettangolare, di cui si conservano oggi le tracce nel livello basamentale della grande sala rossa al piano terra del corpo principale. Poco dopo e per successive articolazioni, verranno costruite le alte mura e il torrione ancora oggi visibile sul fondo del giardino, contraddistinti dalla caratteristica tessitura muraria “a spina di pesce” e dai fregi in cotto. Alla cortina furono inoltre addossate, sul fronte principale e a nord, le torri-porta di accesso, in origine dotate di ponte levatoio. Tra XIII e XV secolo, di pari passo con il consolidarsi del potere dei Signori di Rivalta, che dal XVI secolo assumeranno il nome Orsini, il complesso è teatro di un’intensa attività edificatoria.
Dimessa la funzione tipicamente militare, intorno al nucleo originario si dispongono altri ambienti, per fasi successive serrate e sovrapposte. Anche la corte interna ospita nuovi edifici, addossati alle mura e oggi demoliti, le cui ampie finestrature sono tuttora leggibili sulla cortina. Al piano terreno della torre meridionale viene realizzata una cappella castrale, dotata, alla metà del XIII secolo, di pregevoli affreschi, voluti da Guglielmo, signore di Rivalta. Tra XVII e XVIII secolo interverranno altre importanti riplasmazioni, tra cui la costruzione della manica occidentale, terminata da una cappella barocca. Al tardo settecento si ascrive anche il grande giardino interno su due livelli, che, tra pregevoli essenze, accoglie una gigantesca magnolia.
Infine, nel corso dell’Ottocento, grazie al nuovo proprietario, Conte Cesare Della Chiesa di Benevello, altri interessanti restauri investiranno il complesso, tra cui il coronamento della torretta, che si staglia sullo skyline cittadino. Il suggestivo giardino e le eleganti commistioni tra elementi medievali e neogotici, ispirati alla cultura storico-artistica del tempo, dominata dalle figure del Brayda e del D’Andrade, ne definiscono compiutamente i caratteri e contribuiscono a conferire al complesso un fascino del tutto particolare, che si svela, improvviso, all’interno.
Fonte: www.comune.rivalta.to.it/
Sind robuste und sehr blühfreudige Gartensträucher.Forsythien werden auch Goldglöckchen genannt und sind zwei bis drei Meter hohe Blütensträucher.Sie wachsen auf fast jedem Boden und blühen meist ab März in großer Fülle.Sie gehören zur Familie der Ölbaumgewächse.
Vincent Van Gogh painted quite a lot of self portraits - including at least one with a missing ear. So I read, this wasn’t based on some chronic case of narcissism, but had rather more to do with the fact that he barely had two sous to rub together most of the time. And whenever those matching coins did transpire, they were usually consumed by his enthusiasm for the local hostelries in Arles. So he painted pictures of himself because he couldn’t afford to pay a model. During the course of his short life, he sold just one painting - to his brother. Maybe one day, someone will be paying hundreds of millions for our artworks, long after we’ve shuffled off into history. Mind you, it will probably be those dodgy NFT collectors, using digital art as a front to shift ill gotten gains from one bank account to another. Allegedly. I’ve had two more of them knocking on my Instagram door in the last few days. One of them offered two sous in exchange for exclusive ownership of “The Big Pink Sky Show.” Plain rude if you ask me.
I mention all of this, because it struck me that if Vincent had come down to Godrevy on a summer afternoon, armed with a Box Brownie, a set of bellows and an armful of silvery plates, he could have had an endless supply of models, inadvertently providing their services free of charge. His two sous wouldn’t have got him very far at the ice cream van on the headland, not unless he’d invested them wisely over the last one hundred and thirty odd years. But for the second time in a couple of weeks, I stood here with people wandering randomly into my shot - and for the second time I liked the result better with the interloper in it, adding to the story and the general sense of motion provided by the incoming sea. The water was arriving from a number of different directions as the tide rolled in on this unusually warm September evening, and it was simply a case of hitting the shutter over and over again and choosing the most pleasing image later on. In fact I didn't need to blend at all as my model, completely oblivious to everything as she stared at her phone, happened to stand here at just the right moment.
I’d come here on another new Flickr rendezvous. “That looks like it might be him,” said Ali as she spotted the figure striding towards us, the tell tale backpack and robust looking tripod giving him away instantly. I waved, and Steve waved back. “Yep, I think you’re right,” I replied. My description of a large red Renault van had obviously done the trick. After introductions, the plan was to show Steve some of the rocks where I’ve set up my tripod over the years. Rocks that I’m still discovering for myself from time to time. From there we might move on to the clifftop locations I often shoot from, although we quickly became so engrossed in where we were, that sunset caught up with us before we even thought of changing the view. And as we did, we discussed all of those pressing matters, gear, locations, editing software, his forthcoming trip to Iceland, exactly how envious I was about his forthcoming trip to Iceland, and our shared world of Flickr. Steve did remind me that I’ve been to Iceland twice, and that this was his first time, but with Iceland, logic doesn’t come into it. I was still jealous. It’s always great to meet up with another photographer who you’ve been conversing with online for some time, to share ideas, contrast processes and discuss more weighty affairs, such as where to get the best pasties in West Cornwall. It’s amazing how many of you seem keen to ensure the pasties are up to standard when you come to pay us a visit.
After exploring the edge of the rocks in the face of a rising tide that threw the odd volley of seawater in our direction, we made a tactical retreat to what is surely going to become a personal favourite in the coming winter months as far as I’m concerned. I must have stood here many times before, and never seen the possibilities, perhaps because I was always so intent on separating the lighthouse and the island from the rocks in the composition. And while that approach still seems eminently sensible, I’ve since decided that it doesn’t preclude this version of events - one where the lighthouse remains fully in view, but the island itself becomes partially merged into the foreground landscape. And while the lighthouse, so central to just about every shot I’ve ever taken here remains a key element, the movement of the sea through those narrow rocky gullies was what entranced me. Add a stray invader along with a soft peachy glow to the sky, and the image felt complete.
Steve had moved behind me, to a place nearer the beach, where he competed for space among what looked suspiciously like the members of a camera club, five or six of them with their tripods lined up before the swirling basin. They’d chosen a good evening for it. This place seems to be getting more and more popular with us togs. It had been a successful visit, and most importantly, Steve appeared to be happy - even though we hadn’t progressed beyond the rocks at the edge of the beach. Another new friendship forged, and plans made for a second meeting a few days later. Somewhere a lot of models of a different kind would be forever getting in the way. More of that to follow.
Meanwhile - I've just updated the tale with a link to Steve's magnificent shot.
www.flickr.com/photos/184798091@N07/53187061712/in/datepo...
Blackdown Tableland National Park, Central Highlands Region, Queensland, Australia
Contact me on jono_dashper@hotmail.com for use of this image.
Shanghai Dongxing International Yacht Club(上海东兴国际游艇俱乐部) in Qingpu District, Shanghai in Winter.
© Andy Brandl (2013)
Don´t redistribute - don´t use on webpages, blogs or any other media without my explicit written permission.
See my "profile" page for my portfolio´s web address and information regarding licensing of this image for personal or commercial use.
Kleine Braunelle (Prunella vulgaris) - eine robuste Wildblume, die besonders bei Hummeln, Wildbienen und Schmetterlingen beliebt ist.
🌸Blume des Jahres 2023🌸
Arbusto robusto de hasta 6 m. de alto. Tallos cubiertos por aguijones curvados hacia abajo. Las hojas tienen 5-7 folíolos y no desprenden olor. Las flores son grandes de color blanco o rosado. Los sépalos están dirigidos hacia fuera y abajo, y caen antes de que madure la úrnula. La úrnula (escaramujo) es esférica o elipsoidal de color rojo oscuro. Se diferencia de R. sempervirens por los estilos libres en lugar de soldados en columna.
Esta especie es muy polimorfa y es necesaria una clave de clasificación para poder identificar correctamente todos los caracteres.
The weeping cherry tree in our front yard attracted a host of beautiful birds this summer. Wax wings, tanagers, bluebirds, robins and cardinals all gathered to consume the small berries. This healthy, well-adorned male Cardinal was no exception. Together, they picked the tree bare of fruit in a few days. It was wonderful to sit back and watch the activity from the front porch. The subdued evening light obscured the background but accented his robust spring colors.
The morning after a robust and desperately needed rainstorm quenched California, Yosemite Valley transformed into a wonderland of low-lying, swirling mist with replenished waterfalls. The swirling fog at the base of Bridalveil Fall created an ethereal, and constantly changing composition I’ve long wanted to get, I had just never been here when the conditions were just right. The best Thanksgiving treat I could’ve gotten!
I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A COMPULSIVE DRAWER. I would declare war on every blank area left on notebooks, desks, chalk-boards and school walls. My teachers never appreciated this, but I did win recognition among the other kids. But I was independent and pretty much a loner. I rarely communicated verbally, but I never failed to communicate by using my favourite language: images.
Luckily for me, it was my grandparents who practically raised me, instilling in me all the values I retain to this day. But even though my grandparents offered material and emotional support, I felt abandoned. It was a pain that was muted and sometimes battered into submission, but it invariably came to surface. Plus I sensed that there was something else, a much more disturbing truth that lay at the core of the adult world. Being much too young to identify it, it remained a frustrated inarticulate feeling. But there was something clearly evident in my drawings that expressed those feelings. My talent for drawing, my attention to detail, and above all, my grotesque sense of humor were obvious in the drawings.
By the age of eight, whatever I had lodged in the back of my mind came forward in a blurry approximation in art. It was art that rescued me. Many of the drawings had an underlying dark tone. The drawings gave my incoherent inner world some form of expression and substance, however crudely rendered. Grown-ups had a profound effect on my artistic development, but not in a way they would have approved. I began to observe and to judge people, making evaluations about their nature and characters. This, too, found its way in my drawings. One could see from the progression of drawings a groping and developing maturity. It was a discovery and odyssey of self.
A teacher observed one of my drawings, and obviously dismayed, he asked: “What is the matter Victor?”
I answered: “What is the matter with everybody else?”
A conscious awareness of the adult world came into sharper focus: my overall impression of adults was that they were bogus liars and hypocrites, saying not what they thought, but rather what they believed would serve some particular purpose, some hidden agenda. Everybody came armed with two faces. It seemed to me that the world thrived on bullshit, hypocrisy and lies. I noted a desperate whoring after status, an irrational and pathetic desire to “beat the Jones” followed up by saccharine sentimentality by mealy-mouthed charlatans—and all of it showcased to the people they themselves loathed. Lies, backstabbing, deception, two-faces, malice and hypocrisy was the currency of exchange in the adult world. And so I took a profound disliking to most people I came across. I could sense the spiritual emptiness and viciousness within them. I wanted to like and admire people but I rarely came across anyone who was worthy of it. The only noted exceptions were my grandparents.
I HAD TURNED SIXTEEN JUST A FEW MONTHS before the holidays. Christmas brought distant relatives and immediate family together at the Pross household. For me, people were bad enough on their own but it became worse when they assembled together under the same roof. It was on such occasions that fully demonstrated the insanity and phoniness of these people. I would scan the large living room absorbing the adults sitting on the couches and chairs, each one looking anxious and distant. They were tipsy on day-long benders of Bloody Caesars, making efforts to appear jovial. There was a constant display of smiley backslapping and “Merry Christmases” by people who maligned one another the moment backs were turned. There was an unvarying spectacle of petty bickering over trivia and the sudden surfacing of years-long resentments best forgotten. All the forms of human flaws and ugliness to be found in the world---a world which insists on being imperfect—were on display before the eyes of the juvenile artist.
To lighten the mood, somebody put a dance song on. I watched with keen interest as glasses were overturned by dancing feet and the coffee table was moved out of the way to make room. A frenzy of stimulation bubbled in the room and everyone’s voice rose imperceptibly in pitch. As far as I was concerned, it was a circus.
Each relative represented an unsavory social stereotype or archetype of one kind or another. They were caricatures. From the town’s busy body gossip-monger tyrant--to the dour spinster forever spouting on about “God’s wrath”--to the town’s fast-talking used car salesman who dressed like a big city pimp---to every other stereotype imaginable. It was all there. This was no less true when it came to Uncle Bernard, better known as “Bernie.” Sitting near the Christmas tree, I was observing him closely. He was the jet-set wannabe playboy type. He sported a dyed perm that looked as if had come straight off a Styrofoam head from 1973. Assuming himself a lady-killer, he actually had all the charm of a toupee made of straw dipped in black ink. With each attempt at a pickup he was invariably shot down. “Lesbian!” he would bellow at women who rejected him.
Sitting next to Bernie was my mother, Terry. She was immersed in conversation, laughing with a forced hilarity, her drink spilling over. There was something that troubled me about my mother. She was a woman who was so utterly self-absorbed, forever preoccupied with what others thought. My mother’s sense of personal value was crucially dependent on the image of herself as a glamorous beauty. At the age of thirty-eight, she was wont to ask for reassurances of her looks. “Do you think I have nice legs? I use to be a Go-Go dance, you know?” and “When was the last time you saw a woman as gorgeous as me—and at my age?” With each passing year she began to perceive every wrinkle on her face as a metaphysical menace. Taking aging as a threat to her identity, she plunged into a series of sexual relationships with men fifteen years her junior demanding fresh admiration to assuage her hollowness.
My mother’s constant need for validation annoyed me. I was nevertheless fascinated with human behavior. What I perceived in my mother was a definite narcissism, only I didn’t have the word for it at the age of sixteen. Spurred by mother’s conceit, I decided to try an experiment. I played upon her vanity by offering her a lavish compliment, just to see her reaction. My motive wasn’t flattery for flattery’s sake, it was a psychological experiment.
I tapped my mother on the shoulder, interrupting her conversation.
“Mom?”
My mother turned to me, clearly annoyed, her expression a fusion of wonder and irritation.
“Victor dear, can’t you see I’m talking to this nice gentleman?”
“But mom, I need to tell you something.”
“Yes, yes, what is it?”
“I just wanted to say that…you look just like Marilyn Monroe.”
My mother took a deep intake of breathe. She clapped her hands in appreciation and snuggled her darling son into her arms. “Did you hear that?” she demanded of the guests. The room fell to a hushed silence. “What is it, Terry?” asked a guest. “My boy said I look like Marilyn Monroe. That’s my boy! Oh, he knows a good looking chick when he sees one!” My mother then let out an exuberant laugh, which itself was enough to draw attention. After a few more brandy-laced eggnogs, my mother became more of an embarrassment. She made damn well sure to tell new arrivals at the party what her son had said about her. It was a compliment that was warmly recalled by her for years to come. I had always regretted my causal flattery.
I appreciated the art of caricature more so than ever before. I enjoyed the spectacle of observing the reaction of anyone I nailed in a drawing. When people observed a grotesque drawing I had rendered of them—in dead-on accuracy---they would dissolve in self-consciousness. This had a clinical kind of fascination to me. Although one can be disconcerted at witnessing an open incision, I got some amazing glimpses of their guts. What came out of it was a deeply ingrained self-doubt. I knew my art had the power to reach people. “You are a sick guy, Pross,” said one of my displeased subjects. “How is it that I’m sick,” I responded, amazed by this sudden psychological evaluation. “The drawing portrays how you are—not me.”
Observing my mania for drawing, my grandfather decided to have a heart-to-heart chat with me. He entered my room as I sat at my desk, which was littered with sketchpads of drawings and half-ass watercolors.
Grandfather picked up a sketch pad flipping through it. “You have a real talent there, my boy,” he said. A firm hand rested on my shoulder. “It would be a shame if that went to waste”
I smiled and lowered my head.
“There are a lot of people who always dump on me for drawing, granddaddy.”
He smiled. “When it comes to insults, consider the source---and also try to consider what you think may be their motivation.”
My grandfather put an encouraging arm around me, playfully mussing up my hair.
He pulled up a nearby chair and sat down next to me.
“Now listen to me,” he said with a pinch of gravity, “you have a talent, son—a very evident and rare talent, but you can’t expect it to do all the work for you. You have to hone and develop that talent. If you want to be an artist, it takes practice, practice, practice. It is about hard work. It’s not enough to have talent alone. You need to have a hunger. You understand?”
I smiled. “I need to be a hungry artist?”
“I’m serious, son.”
“I know. So am I”
“Good. That’s right, a hungry artist.”
“I am. It’s like a compulsion. I feel so good when I’m drawing. It lifts me up. I need to express what I have going on inside of me. I suppose that is a hunger.”
I paused for a moment. My grandfather looked at me, his clear blue eyes beaming. His smile conveyed immense admiration…and hope. “I love you, grandson.”
I couldn’t express in words the feeling that I felt so abundantly. The love and admiration I felt for this man was great, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him so for some reason. And so I simply smiled and look downward, hoping that this motion expressed what should have said with words.
Not everyone responded with agitation to the drawings of this teenage caricature artist. Sam Ferguson, the owner of the diner I frequented at the time, was blessed with a robust sense of humor. As he observed one of my renderings, he laughed with his whole body, his heavy-set frame shook like a bowl of Jell-O resting on the clothes dryer in final spin. “You are a crazy son of a bitch!” Gus hollowed. “How do you think of this stuff?” In the drawing, I had Gus lurched over a hot stove stirring the day’s soup special with beads of sweat dripping into the pot. In the background, one can see an unsuspecting customer slurping the broth, bellowing, ‘Gus, I love the extra flavor you added!’
“Come here, my boy,” Gus said, sliding a hamburger and fries over to me. “Here’s your payment for a job well done.”
“You’re paying me for that drawing…by feeding me?”
Gus looked astonished that I was astonished. “Of course! A man should be paid for his work. That drawing is hanging on my wall, and it gives me a great deal of pleasure.”
“It does.”
“You are very talented. Hey, I want to frame it and hang it up on my office wall. How much do you want for it?”
“You just paid me,” I answered, biting into the hamburger.
“No, not that, that’s a token payment, I’m talking about really paying you. That is a work of art we’re talking about!”
“I don’t know…”
“Here,” Gus said, taking my hand and slipping a hundred dollar bill into it.
“Hey man, are you serious—a hundred bucks!”
“Too little?”
“No, this is cool. Thanks Gus!”
“One day you are going to be a famous artist. People will be paying you a lot more than a measly hundred bucks. Hey, don’t think that I’m cheating you…I’m not a rich guy.”
“Come on, Gus, I know that. This is so cool, man. If only my grandfather could see this.”
I realized that I could temper my art with light-hearted humor, the gentle good wit that my grandfather imparted in me—along with the acerbic wit characteristic of Barry McConnell. It was here that this artist punk learned that caricature has both a dark and light face to it. I also learned that the caricatures I drew, and the people who inspired them, were not confined to the community where I lived. They circled the globe. It was to the wider culture that my focus turned. I had so much to learn and so much to express.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
**above photo is of my mother--Terry, my oldest brother--Robert, and Kevin (with his arm around me).
Press L for best view.
It is a little nerve-wrecking jumping from one stone block to another with precious camera and lenses in hand :) Robust shoes, with no-slippery bottom are a must - I have a pair :)
Your comments are appreciated!
This is a male Starred Agama (Laudakia stellio), a large , robust lizard that inhabits the extreme South East of Europe. Females have duller colouration but males have their black colouration bejewelled with yellow or orange spots. Males defend a territory which they survey from a high vantage point looking for intruding males muscling in on his harem. I photographed this one in Turkey but they weren't usually as confiding as this.
A small, robust industrial locomotive often used for freight transport or shunting operations in ports, factories, and quarries. This specimen was left behind and decommissioned after the closure of the 'Steenfabriek Udenhout' in 1974.
Tintoretto (Jacopo Robusti 1519 - 1594) - Last Supper (1547) - Venice, Church of the Saints Ermagora and Fortunato - Exhibition of the young Tintoretto Academy Gallery - Venice
ROBUST SMALL WADER, and one of my joys is to see, a small flock, feeding along the edges of breaking waves on sandy beaches, sometimes running at great speed, seldom stop, for more that a fleeting second, making photography challenging. Seen above at Hampton, Herne bay, Kent.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
HELP PLEASE!
+++++++++++++++has anybody seen a moorhen catch a fish, or is it only vegetation , one has taken up resident on my garden pond, worried it may take the goldfish!
++++++++++++++++++++++
THANK YOU, For your visit and comment, its very appreciated and find encouraging! God bless you all,..........Tomx.
A stately spire in the Northern Japanese Alps, Mt Yari (spearhead literally) is seen in this symmetrical/reverse position here. Hindsight, yes, but had the sun risen higher when I came around, I would've been able to take a better image of the reflection...
Btw, the ridgeline on the right is called Higashikama-one (east sickle ridge, literally, as it swerves around like the blade of a sickle ) and is a popular trek course attracting robust/die-hard trekkers (called Omote Ginza Trail). Can you locate 2 mountain huts: one on the left of and below Mt Yari, the other at the bottom of it on the front side? Believe it or not, come spring, avid skiers come enjoy their downhill runs on Yarisawa Valley (5 to maybe 8km long), after trekking as many distances uphill on the snowy switchbacks carrying their ski boards on their shoulders, phew!