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I have a weakness for the trees, specially de lonely ones.
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www.youtube.com/watch?v=rHpR1OdTlbI
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"....They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love." ~ Washington Irving
Flickr Explore #388 - 26 March 2013! Thanks everyone for the comments and favourites!
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Chocolates & pralines, I better be carefull with those. When I get them at home, I'll finish the box in no time.
Evidences of Salvation
by James Smith
Many real believers are often distressed and troubled, on account of . . .
the weakness of their faith,
the strength of their fears, and
their mistakes in reference to their interest in Christ.
They look for too much in self, and for too little in Christ.
To avoid soul deception — they are apt to run into gloom and despondency. They look for certain evidences in themselves, and because they do not find those they look for — they conclude they have none; and giving way to the temptations of Satan, they . . .
distress their own souls,
dishonor the Lord Jesus, and
reflect badly on the grace of God.
They doubt not the ability of Christ — but they question his willingness to save. If the testimony of scripture assures me he is able to save — it is to encourage me to approach him and cast my soul upon him — and if he assures me he will never cast out — it is to disperse my fears, remove my doubts, and draw me to his mercy-seat with confidence and courage. There is no saving religion in doubting — though many who are truly godly do doubt. Slavish fear never honors a God of love — yet many who desire to honor him give way to groundless fears.
1. One evidence of true salvation is CONVICTION OF SIN. Conviction of sin in the conduct — and of sin in the heart. We are all sinners — but only a few know what sin is, and what a fearful thing it is to be a sinner. Sin is . . .
the breach of the divine law,
an insult offered to every one of the divine attributes,
and that horrible thing which God hates.
Sin . . .
is rooted in our nature,
grows with our growth,
strengthens with our strength,
flows from our hearts as naturally as water from a fountain, or light from the body of the sun.
Every action we have performed,
every word we have spoken,
every thought we have conceived—
has been defiled by sin, and deserves eternal death!
The nature of sin is most dreadful, and the effects of sin are most fearful. But man untaught of God has no such views of sin, or of himself as polluted by it; but when the Holy Spirit quickens and enlightens the immortal mind, when he brings home the law as the standard of holiness and the rule of conduct — then the sinner discovers his state, and fears the consequences. He is alarmed, distressed, and inquires, "Who, what can save me?" He fears his sins are too numerous and aggravated to be pardoned, being ignorant of the extent of the grace of God, and the infinite merit of the blood of Christ. He fears presumption — and he dreads despair. He cannot laugh at sin or longer trifle with eternity; he can no more dare the justice or slight the mercy of God. He is concerned for his safety, being conscious of his danger. He longs for a pardon, being convinced of his guilt. He trembles at the thought of justice — but hopes when he hears of mercy. Sensible of his lost condition, he presents the heartfelt prayer, "God be merciful to me a sinner!"
But we are not to judge our conviction of sin by its depths — but by its nature. If it drives us to despair, then it is natural. But if it drives us to Jesus, then it is spiritual. If your conviction . . .
leads you to see your need of a Savior,
prevents your resting on anything but Christ Jesus,
leads you frankly to confess your crimes before God,
and to seek for salvation solely by the grace of God—
then they are spiritual convictions, and the evidence of spiritual life. None could produce them, but the Holy Spirit; and none ever experience them, but those whose names are written in the Lamb's book of life!
2. In close connection with conviction of sin, is hatred to sin, loathing ourselves on account of sin. If we see sin in the light of the Lord — then we must hate it. If we see ourselves as polluted and defiled by sin — then we must loathe ourselves on account of it. Finding sin to be rooted in our nature, and seeing it occasionally break out notwithstanding our striving and watching against it — will stop our mouths from boasting, and prevent our excusing ourselves. We shall see sin as our fault — as well as our disease; as our crime — as much as our misery. And feeling inclined at times to favor it, and secretly wishing we were at liberty to indulge in it — will make us abhor ourselves and repent in dust and ashes! The former is from the corruption of nature — and the latter from the principle of divine grace.
The Christian hates sin in all — but mostly in himself; and while he wishes the world to be freed from it — he would give a world if he could but get rid of it! It is sin in himself, which grieves him:
sin in his prayers,
sin in his praises,
sin in his purposes,
sin in his duties,
sin in all he does!
And seeing no hope of complete sanctification on this side the grave, he cries, "I loathe it, I loathe it, I would not live always!" As sin is forbidden, he dares not indulge it. As the object of his hatred, he naturally forsakes it. He cannot but lament that sin is in his nature, and grieve before God when it appears in his conduct. If sin is the object of your hatred, if self is loathed because it is sinful — then it is evident you are born of God; for except a man be born from above — he cannot loathe self, hate sin, and forsake it. In order to do this, he must have a new nature, and that nature must be holy and divine.
3. An appetite for divine things is a scriptural evidence of grace. "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness — for they shall be filled." If we can find satisfaction, pleasure, and delight only in the things of the world — then we are dead in sin; dead while we live. But if instead thereof, we are thirsting for God, to . . .
enjoy his presence,
feel his love,
receive his blessing, and
walk in the light of his countenance —
if we are hungering for Jesus as the bread of life,
and if nothing but Jesus himself can satisfy us —
then we are certainly blessed.
"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness — for they shall be filled." This promise is plain, positive, and certain; and every hungry soul may derive comfort therefrom. When Jesus is the chief object of our desire, and the blessings he communicates are the principle things in our estimation — then there is divine life in the soul. For dead men have no desire or appetite for natural things; so people spiritually dead have no appetite for spiritual things. If nothing but Christ can satisfy us — then we "have been born again, not of perishable seed, but of imperishable, through the living and enduring word of God!" 1 Peter 1:23
4. An entire willingness to be saved in God's way; that is, by free grace through the blood of Jesus — is an evidence of divine life in the soul. No man in a state of nature is willing to be saved as a poor debtor by a Surety; as a miserable sinner by a gracious Savior. Man would rather perish in sin, than be saved in this way! Hence our Redeemer testified, "You will not come unto me that you might have life." "The carnal mind is enmity against God, it is not subject to the law of God, neither indeed can be."
Self, works, and merit — must be entirely renounced! We must heartily surrender ourselves into the hands of Jesus to be . . .
washed in his blood,
clothed in his righteousness,
and sanctified by his Spirit —
or we reject God's method of salvation.
But if we are willing to do this, there can be no doubt but God has been working in us, to will and to do of his good pleasure. The promise in our experience is then fulfilled, "Your people shall be willing in the day of your power." Fallen human nature will not approve of God's plan, which makes man nothing — and Christ all in all. Nor will the carnal mind accept salvation on any such terms. Consequently if we are willing, heartily willing to be saved from wrath through him, and prove that willingness by our conduct — we doubtless have the Holy Spirit in us.
5. If in addition to this, we are made honest and SINCERE; and being sensible of the ignorance of our minds and deceitfulness of our hearts — we come to the light of God's word, and to his glorious throne, praying, "Search me, O God, and know my heart, try me, and know my thoughts; and see if there is any wicked way in me, and lead me in the everlasting way!" The sincere Christian dreads deception, and desires to make his "calling and election sure;" he shuns presumption, and would avoid the possibility of mistake. He therefore, bares his conscience to the word of God, and would not play the hypocrite upon any consideration.
Honesty and sincerity of heart in reference to our eternal concerns, is a most important blessing; none possess it but those who are "called, and chosen, and faithful;" and if we are made honest in this sense, it is the grace of God which brings salvation that has made us so, and it is clear we are called with a holy calling.
6. FAITH in Jesus is an evidence of salvation; not believing that he is my Savior, that he "loved me and gave himself for me;" for this is rather the effect of faith than faith itself. Faith is the eye of the soul which discovers the blessing which Jesus has to bestow; and the hand which is stretched out to receive it. Believing in Jesus is . . .
venturing my soul upon his work,
trusting my whole self in his hands,
committing myself to him to be saved in his way, to his glory, as he is revealed in the everlasting gospel.
I feel that I am a sinner, and subscribe to all that God says in his holy word, respecting man as a sinner. I hear of Jesus as both able and willing to save, and I go to him in the exercises of my soul and cry, "Lord, save me!" I gather his answer from his word, and am enabled to lay hold on it by the Holy Spirit.
It requires no depth of wisdom, or mighty effort of mind to believe in Jesus. We simply . . .
credit his word,
confide in his faithfulness,
trust his atonement, and
look for the mercy of God unto eternal life.
Believing in him — we confess him as the Savior God has appointed, the Savior on whom we rely; and if we "confess with the mouth the Lord Jesus, and believe in the heart that God has raised him from the dead — we shall be saved."
Reader, believe on the Lord Jesus Christ — and you shall be saved, for "Whoever believes in the Son has eternal life — but whoever rejects the Son will not see life, for God's wrath remains on him." John 3:36
Are you afraid? Do doubts arise in your mind? The difficulty in your mind arises from misapprehension. You needed a Savior, the gospel informs you of Jesus, who is just suited to your need, and assures you that he will receive and save you. And what is faith? Just receiving this statement and acting upon it. It is . . .
going to Jesus as directed,
receiving Christ as he is presented,
looking to him as invited, and
trusting in him as you are exhorted to do.
Every looking Israelite was healed, and every looking sinner shall be saved — the very looking to Jesus is faith, and proves your saving interest in the promise, "whoever believes shall receive remission of sins."
7. Love is an evidence of salvation.
Love to JESUS is an evidence of interest in the covenant of mercy — love flows from faith. If I believe what the Scriptures say of Jesus, as to the glory of his person, the tenderness of his heart, and the fullness of his grace — then I shall go to him to prove the truth of these important statements, and proving the truth of these precious declarations — how can I do otherwise than love him. If I question his loveliness or his love to me — then I cannot love him; and this is the cause why many of the Lord's little ones droop, and doubt, and fear. They question the truth of his word, and consequently the love of Jesus to them; this contracts and hardens the heart, and if they would give a world to feel love to Jesus. They cannot feel it, until brought cordially to admit the truth of what the scriptures testify in reference to the love and loveliness of Jesus — and then their frozen hearts will melt, and they will love him, because he first loved them.
But we must not always judge of love by warmth of feeling. There has been much warmth, where there has been but little sincere love. We must judge by the habitual state of our heart toward him.
Do you desire above all things to love him, and to be conformed to his will? Are you willing to part with all things for him, and unreservedly trust yourself with him? This is love; when I can trust my eternal interests in his hands, and endeavor constantly to keep his commandments.
Love to HIS PEOPLE because they are his, and are like him — is an infallible evidence of the new birth. "We know that we have passed from death unto life, because we love the brethren." If I love the picture — it is because I know and love the original. I could not love saint as a saint — if I did not know and love Jesus as the Savior of his people. If saints were more like Christ, then we would love them more. But as it is, though they are surrounded with infirmities, we love them; and are consequently entitled to be numbered with them, and to participate in all their joys and sorrows.
If we love Jesus supremely, and saints affectionately — then it is clear that we are created anew in Christ Jesus unto good works.
8. Humility proves we are the blessed of the Lord. If we are humbled under a sense of our sin, ignorance, and desert — we shall . . .
flee for refuge to the Lord Jesus,
receive with meekness the engrafted word;
and ascribe all our salvation to grace!
Nothing but the power of the Spirit of God can effectually . . .
humble the proud heart of man,
shut his mouth before God,
cause him with self-abhorrence to cry, "Guilty, guilty!"
and bring him to receive the kingdom of God as a little child.
Man will be something — but grace makes him nothing. It is the greatest mortification to proud nature, to be indebted to another for salvation, or to go to Heaven as a poor pauper, entirely dependant on the work of Jesus.
To renounce our own judgment,
to submit to be taught of God,
to believe the Word because God speaks it, and
to cleave to Jesus with full purpose of heart —
is genuine humility. The man has nothing to say against the demands or sentence of the holy law; and nothing to object to the provision or requirements of the glorious gospel. But he casts himself entirely on the . . .
unmerited mercy,
rich grace, and
promised compassion of Jehovah.
To this man, will Jehovah look with pleasure and approbation, and with him will he take up his abode. He walks humbly with his God. "Though the Lord is high — yet has he respect unto the lowly." "Blessed are the poor in in spirit — for theirs is the kingdom or Heaven."
9. He who is truly humbled under a sense of sin — pants, prays, and seeks for HOLINESS. He is as much concerned to be sanctified, as saved. He sees . . .
a beauty in holiness — and longs to possess it,
deformity in sin — and seeks to be delivered from it.
He mourns over the sins of others — but more over his own sin. Sin and Hell are always associated in his mind. He views . . .
sin as the root — and Hell as the tree;
sin as the fountain — and Hell as the stream naturally flowing from it.
Every man creates his own Hell — but no man can create his own Heaven. The true Christian must long to be holy — the precepts require it, and the principle of life within him pants for it with inextinguishable ardor. If he could but be holy, he would be happy, therefore he cries, "I shall be satisfied when I awake up in your likeness!" He avoids sin — and desires to be arrayed in all the graces of the Spirit, in all the beauties of holiness. He would be the personification of faith, love, humility and godly zeal. This desire for holiness is a certain evidence of godliness; for "without holiness no man shall see the Lord."
10. Godly FEAR is a covenant blessing, and a proof that we are of God. If we fear God with a filial fear, we fear to offend him and desire above all things to please him. It is not what will men say — but shall I hereby please God? We are taught in his word how to walk and to please him, and godly fear always prompts us to aim at this end. We shall fear to dishonor him in the world, the church, and our families. God is jealous of his glory — and so is a godly man. He desires to glorify him in the body, soul, and spirit, which are God's. He does not run at random — but prays, "What will You have me to do?" He does not make excuse for infirmities — but sighs out, "O that my ways were directed to keep your statutes always!" His motto is, "No peace with sin — no truce with Satan — no friendship with the world!" because these would lead him to dishonor God. He would rather suffer pain, than . . .
grieve the Holy Spirit,
dishonor his heavenly Father,
or wound the Savior.
And when he sees others careless, loose, and licentious; indulging their lusts and giving way to temptations, he says, "I do not do so, because of the fear of the Lord." He startles at sin with, "How shall I do this great wickedness, and sin against God!"
11. Attachment to the WORD OF GOD is a proof that we are of God. Real believers always prize the bible — they love to read it, to think over its contents, and to enjoy its communications. It is as necessary for their souls — as food is for their bodies; they often esteem it more than their necessary food. They would sooner part with all their dainties, than with their bibles. They read it as truth, they believe it as containing the mind of God; and when tempted to think differently, they are grieved and distressed. If the word of God is neglected, they condemn themselves, mourn over their folly before God, and crave his forgiveness. They stay themselves upon the word of God — when assaulted by Satan. They look to it for direction — when bewildered in their path. It is to them as Goliath's sword was to David, for they all say, "There is none like it."
They love the Word because it . . .
sets forth Jesus,
reveals the mind of God,
marks out the path of duty,
affords rich consolations,
and contains a mine of wealth.
They live . . .
believing its doctrines,
trusting its promises,
walking by its precepts, and
deriving encouragement and caution from its histories.
"O how I love your law, it is my meditation all the day. Except your law bad been my delight, my soul had almost dwelt in silence."
12. DISSATISFACTION with everything worldly on account of the imperfections discovered, is another evidence of real spirituality. Nothing under Heaven can satisfy the Christian. Having gone the round, he turns away with disgust and exclaims, "Whom have I in Heaven but you, and there is none upon earth that I desire beside you!" He can find full satisfaction only . . .
in the presence of God,
in the enjoyment of his Savior,
and in the duties of Christianity.
Everything besides appears empty, polluted, and vain. He may be occasionally attracted, and for a season led away from his resting place; but feeling dissatisfied, uneasy, and grieved, he says, "Return unto your rest, O my soul. There's nothing here deserves my joys — there's nothing like my God!"
If nothing can satisfy us but God, he will never put us off with less than himself. The wisdom, justice, the grace discovered in such a state of soul, is from himself; and he will never forsake the work of his own hands. We may learn from, and profit by, his works — but we can only rest in, and be satisfied with
himself. "The Lord is our inheritance. He is our portion forever!"
13. A spirit of PRAYER is from the Lord, and is a proof of our saving interest in his love. "Behold he prays!" If desire for prayer is produced, and the throne of grace is frequented — we are the blessed of the Lord. Prayer is the Christian's breath — he prays as naturally and as habitually as he breathes. And we would as soon think of a man living without respiration — as of a Christian living without prayer.
But do not mistake, prayer is not a form of words — but a sense of need, and a petition for supply. The believer often prays without speaking — while many speak in a form without praying. He goes to Jehovah as naturally as a child to his Father, and as frequently as he feels his wants. He lives in constant fellowship with Heaven. Sometimes he can only sigh or groan — and at other times he can plead with liberty and power. Sometimes he can only look towards the throne of grace — and at others he can wrestle with God and prevail.
His heart inspires his petitions,
the Word of God regulates his desires,
to Jesus he looks as his Intercessor before the throne, and
he continues in prayer notwithstanding discouragements.
He often feels . . .
his heart hard,
his thoughts perplexed,
his mind bewildered, and
his spirit lukewarm.
He is tempted to believe that it is no use for such a one, in such a frame to attempt to pray; but he must confess his faults, tell out his fears, and entreat for mercy in a Savior's name. And though often persuaded that he does not pray, that his attempts cannot be accepted, and that he has neither the gift nor the spirit of prayer — yet he still attempts to find access, and to breathe his sorrows there.
Mere formalists are generally satisfied with their prayers, and too often rest in them. But the real Christian sees his to be so impure, imperfect, and worthless — that he dares not trust in anything but Jesus, his righteousness, and blood.
Can you live without prayer? Can your discouragements make you give over attempting? Are you satisfied with your prayers? Or do you see that they, even the best of them, need to be washed in the precious blood of Jesus? If so, you have light, life, and spirituality; and surely you are one of those whom Jesus loves. Private prayer, from a sense of need, continued under all discouragements, is an evidence that we are the children of God.
14. The CONFLICT between the flesh and the Spirit, is an evidence of grace. If we have a daily exposition of the seventh chapter of the Romans within us — then we are as Paul was. This most Christians have in a greater or less degree: they would do good — but evil is present with them. They would serve the law of God — but are led captive by the law of sin. They hate what they often do — and love what they cannot attain to. They would be holy — but they sin; yet they never excuse sin in themselves, or endeavor to quote scripture to cloak it.
The flesh and the spirit carry on a constant warfare, so that the believer often feels wretched and longs for deliverance. He cannot do the things that he would. Sin will fight when it cannot reign. The warfare will only cease with death.
We daily discover how the flesh misleads us, and we find it spoils all we attempt for God's glory. It creeps into our motives, or turns us aside from our rule, or puffs us up at the end. Thus we feel . . .
the daily need the open fountain,
the renewings of the Holy Spirit, and
a fresh pardon from the hands of Jesus.
The flesh would make us truly miserable — but the riches, plenitude, and permanence of grace prevents it. The love of Jesus is the same — he witnesses the conflict, sympathizes with the sufferer, and cheers him with the assurance, "My grace is sufficient for you!"
The spirit desires only to be devoted to, ruled by, and employed for the Lord; and longs for the happy deliverance promised in God's word. Therefore, the flesh and spirit will strive against each other until the day of death!
15. Separation from the WORLD, from a discovery of its vanity and enmity to God — is an evidence of grace. The world will love its own — but saints are not of the world, even as Jesus was not of the world. They see that it is opposed to God in its spirit, maxims, and works; and that all the cry is "No God for me!" They cannot join with the ungodly world — they become strangers and pilgrims, and desire to leave it. They . . .
pity its state,
condemn its spirit,
protest against its practices,
and yet seek its good.
They witness for God in it, and to it. They sigh and cry because of its abominations, and long for the period when the earth shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption, and there shall be no more curse!
A worldly spirit indulged and enjoyed, is the evidence of a worldly man. But deadness to the world, sympathy with Jesus who was persecuted and crucified in the world, and living above the world in fellowship and communion with God — is the evidence of a spiritual man. The world knows not, loves not the Christian; and the Christian loves not the world, knowing that if any man is in friendship with the world, that he is an enemy of God — "if any man loves the world — the love of the Father is not in him." The whole world lies in the wicked one, how important then to be delivered from the present evil world; and to have our affections set on things above, where Christ sits at the right hand of God.
"Those who are in the flesh, mind and enjoy the things of the flesh; but those who are in the Spirit, mind the things of the spirit."
16. The Lord's people are CHASTENED FOR SIN, and cannot go on in transgression without correction. An enlightened conscience armed with God's word will smite them, the ministry of the word will pierce and penetrate their hearts, and they prove it to be an evil and bitter thing to wander from the Lord their God. Providence joins with Scripture in reproving them for their folly, and the Lord follows them with the rod until they fall at his feet, acknowledge their transgression, and crave his forgiveness.
Mere professors may be allowed to go on and escape the rod when they sin — but "those whom the Lord loves — he chastens; and scourges EVERY one whom he receives." And the Christian will justify his God in using discipline, though it may be sharp — and will bow and listen to the rod, though it speaks against him.
To lay low at the Lord's feet while he smites,
to cleave to him when he frowns,
to plead with him when he speaks against us —
proves that our principles are divine, that we have the Spirit of God, and are heirs of glory!
O for much of that meek humility which . . .
closes the mouth from speaking against any of God's ways,
opens the ear to listen to all his communications,
lays the heart at his feet, and
covers the face with holy shame before him, on account of conscious unworthiness!
The lofty mountain of a proud heart will be dry, withered, and barren; but the low valley of an humble soul will be watered with the dew of Heaven from above, and bear fruit to Jehovah's praise.
"By humility and the fear of the Lord, are riches, and honor, and life."
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God."
"Despise not the chastening of the Almighty."
17. Looking, waiting, and longing for the SECOND COMING of Jesus, is a scriptural evidence of saintship. Jesus has promised to come again and receive us to himself, he has commanded us to be ready for his glorious appearing, and he has assured us that "to those who look for him, he will come the second time without sin, unto salvation."
Love must desire the presence of the beloved object, and must desire his glorification; and he is coming "to be glorified in his saints, and admired in all those who believe." He is now in the Heavens, waiting until his enemies to be made his footstool. The Heavens must retain him, "until the times of the restitution of all things which God has spoken by the mouth of his holy prophets." Faith believes the statements;
hope expects their accomplishment; and
love looks and longs for the time; crying "Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly!"
He will certainly come, to the joy of all such — but all his enemies shall be ashamed. There are some things connected with the coming of Jesus, which may make our flesh tremble — but . . .
to see him as he is;
to be like him; to be with him;
to swell his train and his triumphs;
to witness his glories; and
to participate in his blessedness —
is certainly an object of desire to every believer. We wait for him at the Son of God from Heaven, who has preserved us from the wrath to come!
18. But after all is said, there is no evidence like HABITUAL FELLOWSHIP WITH GOD. To walk with God as our Father, communicating to him all that we fear, feel, and desire; and receiving from him vigor, comfort, and daily preservation — is an evidence which can never be questioned. We walk by faith, that is,
believing his word,
trusting his grace,
and doing his will.
And though darkness and gloom may occasionally surround and even distress us — yet we know that we are of God. It is as natural to us to feed on his word, desire his presence, and seek his love; as it is to the natural child to believe the word, enjoy the presence, and be happy in the love of a kind and tender parent. Our God is love, and believing this, we rely on him, walk with him, and look for his mercy unto eternal life.
Beloved reader, endeavor to realize the truth and importance of scripture; to live and act as in the immediate presence of God; and to refresh the mind daily by a view of the perfect work of Jesus, on the ground of which God justifies the ungodly, and walks with poor sinners in peace and love. Stand out from the world — be separate; live by faith, believing God's gracious testimony; lay humbly before the Lord, under a sense of unworthiness; and endeavor to realize daily, your union to Christ, and relation to God as a Father through him. So shall peace be with you, and love with faith from our Lord Jesus Christ, who is our only hope.
But a caution may be necessary; these pages may be read by a self-assured professor, one who has light in the head — but no grace in the heart; who substitutes notions — for divine operations; and a sound creed — for a converted soul.
My fellow sinner, unless your heart is broken for sin, and broken from sin; unless your religion leads you to Jesus as a poor, wretched, hell-deserving sinner; and unless you are united to him, and his life is manifest in you — your religion is but like the dream of a night vision! It may he pleasing — but it will prove a fearful delusion. Nothing but heart work in religion will stand! Mere head knowledge will vanish away, every false covering will one day be stripped off, and unless you are clothed in the righteousness of Jesus, and internally sanctified by the Holy Spirit — a dreadful sentence will be passed on you, never to be repealed. O fearful case, to be dreaming of happiness — and to find misery — misery as deep and lasting as the desert of sin, and the existence of God!
Is it a poor thoughtless sinner that is reading these pages? I have a message from God unto you. "Except you are born again, and converted to God — you cannot see the kingdom of Heaven." If you have not the Spirit of Christ — then you are none of his. If you love not the Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity and truth — then you will be accursed when the Lord comes! Unless you are found in Christ — your death will be melancholy, and your eternal destiny indescribably dreadful!
There is mercy to be obtained NOW — this is emphatically "the day of salvation!" But the day will soon close — and a tremendous night of darkness, anger, and woe will set in upon you. A neglected bible, a slighted gospel, a rejected Savior — will all witness against you! And through eternity, you will condemn your present course and curse your folly.
Satan is seeking your destruction, your own hearts are deceiving you, and perhaps the conduct of some professors may cause you to stumble; but remember, "Every man must give an account of HIMSELF to God; and receive according to the deeds done in the body, whether they be good or evil."
Look well to the foundation on which you build your hope; dig deep and lay that foundation on a rock — even on Christ Jesus. And then you may be happy in time — for you are safe for eternity. "Whoever believes on him shall not be ashamed." He will appear to their joy, and their enemies shall be confounded. Hear then the warning voice, act upon the directions given you in the gospel, make sure work for eternity, and all shall be well.
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
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Planet: Trask
Location: Large mysterious ruins
Timeline: Couple months after the Battle of Corellia
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Deep within an old, dark ancient ruins, lies a mystery that has never been told to nobody for decades. Hiding beneath the vast ocean on the ocean planet, held many treasures and secrets that are unknown to most people across the galaxy, waiting for someone or something to find its mysteries. Within the ruins, sounds of metal can be heard clashing and slashing against each other and through the open air.
Two silhouettes wearing long brown robes wielded golden colored weapons, dueling each other in close combat. Grunts and quick shouts came from one another, each one of them trying to find a weakness in their opponent as they hope to gain the upper advantage in their fight. As the two hooded silhouettes fought, sitting upon a large boulder that loomed over them from a distance, was another silhouette with brown robes who watched the duel with some interest. The robes covered most of the stranger's body and face, but the dim light from above the cave revealed an older man with a rough brown beard, his black eyes watching the two as if he was studying them from afar.
As the duel between the two was almost coming to a close, the one silhouette that looked quite feminine, caught the other silhouette off guard as that person lost their footing and collapsed to the ground. Having lost their sword, the silhouette was about to get back up before the feminine silhouette pointed her golden sword at the stranger, the point of the blade just inches away from their face.
"Looks like I win this one," the cloaked female said, catching her breath after their long duel.
"Looks that way," the other one said with a male's voice, he too was trying to catch his own breathing. "But so you know, I let you win that one."
Rolling her eyes, the woman put her blade away and reached down to grab the man's hand, pulling him up and back on his feet. He brushed himself off the dust and dirt that was on him as she replied, "Keep telling yourself that."
The man smirked as he brushed off the last of the dirt from his clothing. "The more we discover each other's weaknesses in battle, the more we will know how to compliment each other's strengths. I think we're going to make a good team."
Both of them smiled at one another when they heard a clapping coming from the older man who had been watching them from the beginning. Standing up, he hops off the boulder and walks towards the two, a long brown and golden staff in his right hand. "Well done, you two! You're getting better and better by the day. It will not be long before you yourselves become masters of the blade."
The two young swordsman smiled at the older man, appreciating the praise from him. They had been working very hard for many years, and have been very diligent to fit in. Hearing those words gave them more faith.
"If it weren't for you belief in us, I don't think we could have gotten to where we are," the man replied, removing his hood from his head. His face revealed that he was quite young, but had just reached adulthood. He had brown, faded facial hair growing on his face and upper lip with long, shaggy brown hair that reached down to the end of his neck.
"I agree with Naaja," the woman agreed with her partner, removing her hood as well. Just like Naaja, she was about his age and just reaching adulthood as well. She had brown hair like his but was much longer and was tied into a ponytail to keep the hair off her face. "Though I still don't know how I feel about going up against them."
Hearing the fear in her tone, the older man smiled softly as he placed his hand on the woman's right shoulder, gently squeezing it. "No one ever feels ready, Zeteara. I felt the same when I was your age. Just remember; you will never be alone. Now come, let's head back to camp. The night is approaching and we still have some work that needs to be done beforehand. Plus, I bet you're both starving after all that training."
"I think I'm good for now master," Naaja boasted a little to him, Zeteara shaking her head at him slightly but with a smirk on her face. Before he knew it, and just when he was going to continue, the sound of a growl was heard as it echoed through the large cavern. Naaja's cheeks turned to red in embarrassment as his master and Zeteara laughed.
"Well, I think your stomach says otherwise," Zeteara continued laughing.
The two young students gathered their things and began following their teacher back to the campsite. But as they began their trek back, Naaja began to feel a bit uneasy as his feet began to drag until he came to a complete stop. Zeteara and their teacher looked back at him as they noticed him in some sort of trance, his expression and eyes going blank.
"Naaja?" Zeteara called to him, some concern rising in her own voice. Before she knew it, Naaja then screamed across the entire cavern, dropping his belongings as he quickly placed his hands on his head and dropped to his knees. This immediately made her and her master worry as she rushed to him. "Naaja?!"
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As Zeteara's voice echoed into nothing but silence, Naaja's mind began to go through multiple images that quickly flashed through him. There were many things that were familiar to him, but the rest were things that he had never seen before, places he has never been, people and voices he had never met or heard in his entire life. The more they ran through his mind, the more confused he became.
That was when the images stopped as he suddenly appeared in some sort of city-like location. The place he stood in felt very familiar to him, small and large buildings looking identical to where he was born. However, all around them, it was all nothing but destruction and debris, fire blazing inside buildings and city streets as the smoke rose to the skies. Although the destruction around him was jarring, the all too familiar, but also unknown, voices resurfaced. However, the voices around him began to echo across the entire fiery city.
'Naaja...'
'Your parents...'
'Insolent fools!'
'We have been waiting...'
'Naaja...'
'Naaja?'
'Who are you?'
'NAAJA!'
The last voice alerted him immediately, grasping his golden sword from who knows where as he got into a fighting stance, searching all around him for any enemy to try and harm him. As he searched and searched, something then caught his sight down the burning street in front of him. There, standing near the blazes, stood a black robed figure with a hood covering their face. It was hard to tell who the person was, but judging from what he could see, it seemed to be some strange man, undoubtedly looking straight at him. Even with the hood hiding his face, he could see clearly the crimson red eyes that seemed to almost pierce right through his heart. Surprising enough, he didn't feel any sort of evil within the man, let alone any ambition of wanting to fight him. He knew that he wasn't going to find out anything by just standing still, so he began to cautiously walk towards the cloaked man, his eyes still staring at him.
As he got closer and closer to him, he could slowly see the face of the man as the fire around them both illuminated his cloaked face. He seemed to be about his age, and judging his entire look, he could see that this man has been through quite an ordeal in his life. From what, Naaja could not tell. Finally reaching the young man, he stood about six feet apart from him, resuming his fighting stance as he still didn't know who this man was.
"Who are you?" Naaja asked the young man, feeling as if he needed to know it. The crimson red eyes that still stared at him never moved as the cloaked stranger raised his hands and began removing the hood from his head. His eyes widened little by little as the young man revealed his face to him.
The young man's expression showed a calm but serious look to him. "Someone who needs your help..."
Immediately after, a sharp jarring pain went through his head, screaming throughout the entire destroyed city as he grasped his head once again. Just as the stranger and the entire scenery vanished before him, he was hit yet again with more images he had never seen before. In that instant, a bright orange light enveloped his entire sight, the visions he was seeing coming to an end...
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Naaja slowly opened his eyes to the dim light of the cavern, noticing that he was on his knees and was still grasping the once horrible pain that went through his head. He looked up to see both the very worried expressions of his teacher and his close friend, Zeteara. His teacher had been standing a few feet away from him while she had him in her arms, one on his shoulder and the other on his waist.
"Naaja? Are you okay? What just happened?" Zeteara asked him, noticing the concern she was carrying in her tone of voice.
He slowly shook his in response, putting his arms down to his sides. "I...I'm not really sure..."
He looked up to his teacher, who looked back at him with a curious expression on his face. "Master...I think the Han'Shi was trying to tell me something."
"What did you see?" his master replied, his curiosity peaking.
Pondering on whatever he just saw, and on the stranger he shortly spoke to, he replied back. "Someone was calling for help. I think we're going to have company, and soon..."
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Location: Inside the Black Shadow...
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"AHH!" The shout echoed in the dim room as Kydan began to catch his breath, his body covered in sweat.
He had been sleeping in the confines of his own ship after a long day of filing reports on Coruscant with Calena and the clones. He had retired to his quarters early after that and decided to catch some rest. But in his sleep, he had a very strange nightmare of images; many places, people and voices that all seemed so familiar, yet others not so much. He had then encountered some stranger who was cloaked in brown robes and hood who had asked him a strange question before vanishing. He was then ambushed with more visions that he could not make out fully before waking up with a startle.
He placed his cybernetic hand on his sweaty head, slowly trying to calm his breathing and anxiety down. What seemed like forever, he was able to catch his breath before turning his head towards the medium-sized, metal desk that had been built into the side of his quarters. There were many objects and items placed among it, and out of those things was his and Dark's Forge saber. Looking at it closely as he could, he could feel some kind of vibration coming from it, as if it was trying to tell him something.
"Kydan?"
Breaking his gaze away from the hilt, he looked towards the middle of his room as Dark stood in the middle, his red crimson eyes illuminating from the darkness staring at the young mercenary. He could sense something was up with Dark, judging from how he was standing in place.
"You alright?" He asked his partner, his dark figure floating above the ground a little bit. "I heard you shouting in your sleep."
"I, uh...I'm not sure, Dark," Kydan replied back, unsure how to explain what had all happened. Frankly, he wasn't entirely sure what he saw at all.
"Well, considering that the blade is giving off a strange vibe, and you with your powers active, there's something going on." Dark said to him.
"My powers are active? What do you mean?"
"Your eyes...they're crimson red right now."
"What?" Kydan questioned softly as he got out of his large bed and walked to the mirror on the right side of the room. As he looked at the mirror, he could clearly see that Dark was right; his eyes were crimson red. Whenever they were red, it was then that his Forge powers were active and ready to be used. This caused even more confusion. "That's weird. Why would they be active like that? That's the first time it's happened like that before."
"I'm not sure, but...there might be one conclusion I can think of."? Dark replied to him, pondering over the possibilities of why this was happening.
"What would that be?"
"It's a rare occurrence," Dark began to say. "But I believe that the Force is using the Forge to tell us something. Long ago, this occurrence happened due to large future events that would be coming. When that happened, users of either the Force, Forge, or both would be given visions of the upcoming events. It's not entirely all bad, but a lot of times, they weren't good either."
"So you think that I had a vision from the Force?" Kydan questioned, slowly starting to piece the puzzle together.
"Most likely, yes."
This made him ponder as he began to pace around his quarters with his hand placed on his chin. He contemplated everything that Dark said, as well as with whatever he could tell from the visions he had seen. Not entirely sure what he all saw, but from what he could just tell, most of it wasn't very good. The only thing that he didn't feel as a threat was the strange man he spoke briefly to before waking up. Something about that stuck to him, concluding to the fact that whoever that person was, they were the first key to his visions.
Dark continued to watch his friend pace through the room before he finally stopped and looked to him. "Dark?"
"Yeah?"
"We need to talk to Calena about this, first thing in the morning," he said as he began thinking again. "I feel as though something is about to happen, very soon..."
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Planet: Coruscant
Location: Republic Center
Timeline: Next morning
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"Are you sure about this?"
"I'm not entirely sure myself, Calena. But where I was in that vision, and whoever I seen, this is no coincidence. The Force is trying to tell us something."
"Hmm..." Calena thought out loud, putting on her thinking face as she and Kydan walked along the large docking bay of starships. Following close behind them were Commanders Breona & Patterns, along with the infamous Tanga Squad following close behind their brothers.
Earlier in the morning, Kydan had woke Calena from her sleep just before she could herself. At first, she wasn't too happy that he waken her up so early, but then changed her attitude after he told her what had happened. Sensing something was wrong, she told him to meet with her at the entrance of the Jedi Temple to discuss more on his visions before heading to the Republic Center. In the hour, the two met up at the temple, just as the break of dawn was just rolling in, the skies of Coruscant shined with thousands of small to large lights. He explained everything that happened to her, including when his own abilities were suddenly activated without him knowing. Once explained, she contemplated on the matter before explaining that she too had some sort of vision in the middle of the night, just a few days.
She explained that a few of his strange images actually matched along with what she had seen, however what she saw within her vision was nothing like Kydan had experienced. One thing was for sure, their mission that they were just recently given was very similar to the images that they both shared; a planet that was primarily just ocean.
"Well, I don't know about you," she said out loud, "but it probably wouldn't hurt to be extra cautious during this mission. Whatever you saw, and the fact that we shared the same place...this could be dangerous."
She was right. Not really knowing what they were about to cross paths with on their mission, anything could happen. "I agree. But, no matter what happens..."
He grabbed her hand and squeezed it lovingly, a smile fixated on his lips. "I'll protect you."
She smiled back and quickly pecked his cheek with her lips, a tinted blush shown on her own cheeks. That was when the sound of soft chuckles was heard coming from behind them, both lovebirds turning around and seeing the expressions of their friend's faces. Egile had a small smirk as he slowly shook his head, where most of the clones who were carrying their helmets had knowing smiles that you just wanna punch. Breona, however, just smiled at his two friends while Patterns looked between them with a confused look. Kydan and Calena both shook their heads, but stilled smiled nonetheless.
"Did, uh...did I miss something?" Patterns questioned to no one in particular, causing even a bit more laughter from his brothers as it just made him even more confused.
Breona chuckled at his brother and placed his gloved hand on his right shoulder. "I'll explain it all on the way. But the best way to start...is that they finally got together."
Patterns looked between him and his commanding officers, who went right back to talking as they continued to hold hands. It took him a few moments to really shift the gears in his head. His eyes widen as he stared back to Breona dumbfounded. "Wait what?!"
Immediately after, the entire group, as well as Kydan and Calena, all laughed at Pattern's slow realization.
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Planet: Trask
Location: Orbit
Time: One day after departure
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The moment the Republic forces dropped out of hyperspace, they were in for a fight for dominance. One by one, however swiftly, each Republic transport and battleship appeared from the one days worth of hyperspace travel as they were met with a large handful of Separatist warships. From what everyone could tell, it appeared that the Separatist hadn't been in the Trask system for very long, due to the way their ships were positioned in a certain formation. However, that wasn't enough for the immediate enemy fighters that had charged right towards the entire fleet, blazes of laser fire and missiles either passing by or hitting their targets. At the same time, the rest of the droid forces moved in to help in the assault, slowly but surely making their war towards them.
But the Republic was ready for them. Figuring that the Separatist would somehow venture out to Trask soon or later, they would hatch a plan in order for the ground units to land. Admiral Wolrein, who was commanding the fleet, ordered the ships to maneuver into the infamous "Marg Sabl", which would make all the Venators turn side ways with their underbellies opened for enemy attacks. However, this gave them the opportunity to send out their squadrons of fighter and bombers safely without being shot down so quickly, where they would all pour out from the middle. Quickly enough, over dozens and dozens of Republic starships flooded out into the battlefield, with Commander Egile and a few members of Pattern & Breona's squads to join in the fray.
While Wolrein and his forces occupying the space battle yet again, the transport ships could begin their landing on the planet. Although the planet was mostly covered with ocean, there were some large docks that they could board on, where some of the droid army would be waiting for them. Coming into view, they saw the large floating metal docks that sat afloat above the water, enough for their transport ships to land their troops on. But not a second went by before they were being shot, hundreds of metal soldiers trying to cause some kind of damage to the landing parties. But it wasn't enough as the Acclamators and gunships landed and boards the docks, ramps lowering themselves down and hatches rapidly opening up as hundreds of clone soldiers began flooding the docks as well. Patterns and his legions of brothers swarmed the enemy quickly, making quick work of holding a landing zone for any additional reinforcements to assist.
Patterns looked towards the battlefield before him, gazing beyond the vast ocean around them. The skies were very cloudy and were beginning to darken, the sounds of rumbles filled the air with a few streaks of lightning appearing out of the clouds. Raining slowly began pouring onto the battlefield, droplets sometimes clashing or bouncing off his armor plating. His memories of when he began his training from home soon occurred in his mind. "Heh...reminds me of Kamino in a way."
"Commander Patterns?" one of his brothers called out to him, rushing up to the commander with a few other men behind him. "Vasper Squadron reporting for duty!"
"Good timing, boys," Patterns acknowledged to them, a smirk forming on his lips from underneath his airborne helmet. "Let's try and see if we can control the situation. Hazzle, Slopes, I want you two take sniper positions on the right flank. Clang, Trans, help guide in our walkers for frontal assault. Vista, your with me. We're gonna handle the evac of any civilians that are still left on this wreckage. Everyone clear?"
"Sir, yes sir!" all of Vasper squad called out saluting or standing straight with their blasters held to their chests. With just a nod, Patterns and Vista made their way through the town while the rest went to take their positions. The battle was just the beginning...
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Location: Bottom of the Ocean
Time: Present Time
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As the battle ensued above the skies and ocean, the remaining ground team proceeded onwards towards where General Grievous' transport was headed. Just like him, Kydan and the others were after the same thing; the mysterious energy signal that emitted below the ocean. The Jedi Council was curious as to what this was and if it could benefit the Republic in some way, thus giving this important task to Kydan and Calena. To find Grievous travelling towards the same location, they could only assume that he was after the same thing.
Having followed the Droid General down below the ocean, they soon descended below the surface in multiple deep diving vehicles. These water boats were called AT-ABs, newest designs for underwater transportation. They were about as long as the Coruscant Police Gunships, acquiring the front cockpit style from the original design which was able to be piloted by two people. It's designs were also shaped the same, along with some looks from both the LAAT/i Gunships and the ARC-170 Starfighters. It had four wings with two on each side, with the addition of a laser turret placed on each bottom wing. It had large ramps that were used to extend outward in order to deploy its soldiers. Although they weren't able to carry walkers, they were able to carry a single AT-RT Walker and a dozen soldiers all at once. To defend itself, they not only carried turrets, but also missiles for vehicle combat.
Within the few gunboats, each one was loaded with dozens of clone soldiers and a couple of pod walkers to assist. In the leading boat, Kydan and Calena were taking command of the operation. With them was a few members from Tanga Squad, which were Commander Breona, Sergeant Burner and Degree, while the rest of the team were under the command of Egile in space. As for the rest of the men, they were all members of Calena's battalion, each one geared up and ready for some action.
As Calena and Breona went over the plans again with the men, Kydan's senses were slowly building up as he started to feel a strong presence towards the unknown source that they were all headed. He placed his hand on his head, struggling to keep himself under control. That was when he felt a gentle touch on his right shoulder. A soft female whisper spoke to him, just loud enough for him to hear. "Hey, you doing alright?"
He turned his to her as he saw some concern in her expression. "I'm not sure. I can sense something here, coming from the mysterious signal it seems."
"Really? I hadn't felt anything yet..." she replied with a raised eyebrow, trying to reach out with the Force as well.
"Huh...very strange," he replied back, not entirely sure why that was. Maybe it had to do with his Forge abilities?
'Generals,' one of the clone pilots chimed. 'We've found the source of the signal that we've been following, and...well...'
'You might just want to see for yourself,' the other pilot spoke up, unsure himself as to how o explain it.
Curiosity now even raised more, both Kydan and Calena, as well as the clones, all looked at the monitor that was placed toward the front end of the boat as it sparked to life. What they saw made them look upon it in awe. What seemed to be very old and ancient, it appeared to be some sort of temple that had been built deep under the ocean. Much different from the Jedi Temple itself, the temple looked to be three times larger from viewpoint. It consisted of more towers that surrounded it, some of them having different shapes and sizes compared to most. It was hard to tell, but from a distance, there was some kind of light blue glow that appeared all over the temple, illuminating it completely. Although it was very old and crumbled, it still looked beautiful to their eyes.
"So that's where the signal is coming from?" Breona questioned, still a bit at awe of the temple before them.
"Apparently so," Kydan replied back, staring at it as well. The closer that they were approaching it, the more he could sense a strong presence coming from within that place. He was now sure that this was the right location. "This has to be. I'm starting to feel it a lot stronger now."
"Yeah, so can I," Calena said, slowly starting to sense something coming from the underwater temple. "Now I know what you were saying. The Force is very strong here."
"If that's the case, then Grievous can't be far either."
"You may be right, sir. Look!" Breona pointed on the screen, his finger directed towards a large, brownish red metal squid that looked to be positioned on the left side of the ocean temple. That machine was known as the Trident-class assault ship.
"Grievous..." Kydan spoke, his voice seethed with anger as his eyes narrowed. "Pilot! Get us into that temple! If Grievous can get inside, then there has to be an air pocket within that place."
'Copy that, sir!' One of the replied back as the entire crew felt the boat moving faster. At the same time, the other two transport boats followed closely behind as they made their way towards the opposite side of the ruins.
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Location: Ancient Underwater Temple
Time: One hour later...
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"What is the situation, captain?" Grievous sternly questioned his droid captain, who was being escorted by a couple B1 Battle Droids.
"Our scanners were right, general," the captain acknowledged back, looking down at its holographic device. "The signal is coming directly from within this temple. But I must warn you sir; there are several sections of this place that are blocking the main path towards it. It may take longer than scheduled."
Grievous scoffs at the droid. "Mere stumbling blocks will not deter our path towards the signal. Take some of our troops and search the ruins fully. I will take some guards and head deeper into the temple and find the signal."
"Roger roger," the droid captain quickly saluted as it signaled towards most of the troops to follow it.
As both Grievous and his droid forces split up into two groups, a cloaked stranger from afar watched as they moved towards her direction. Placing the binoculars she had on her down, she pulled out a small circular device as it lit up in a dim blue color as she softly spoke into it. "Master, I found the intruders. They've split up into two groups; one is heading away from the camp site, and the other is heading towards it."
'Then it's just as Naaja had foreseen,' an older man's voice replied back, his tone telling her that his fears has grown. 'Keep an eye on the group that is heading away from us. Don't attack unless it is necessary.'
"What about the other intruders?" Zeteara questioned, feeling somewhat concerned of the situation before them.
'Naaja and I will handle them and the others,' he replied back. 'If the situation becomes worse, I will contact you. But for now, stay safe as long as possible.'
"Yes master," she said as she continued to watch the droids completely split into two. "May the Han'Shi guide you."
'And with you, my dear,' her master repeated back, a hint of concern in his own tone as well.
Placing the device back into her pocket, she watched a moment longer as they continued their march to the temple before making her way back inside it, hoping and praying that the temple's defenses will hold them for a while until they were ready.
At least, I hope they will hold them off for long, she thought to herself, feeling more concerned of their current situation.
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Location: Opposite side of the temple
Time: Present time
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The purple beaming light from Kydan's lightsaber just brighten enough for him and the others to see what was before and around them. From behind, Calena, Degree and a few of the clones stood closely behind, the men all wearing sub lights that were attached to their Phase II helmets. Calena, who didn't activate her saber yet, stood closely by Kydan as she clutched her hand into his cybernetic one.
Sometimes, when she would take a hold of it, she would feel guilty and blame herself for allowing Kydan to lose his arm for her sake. She had thought at times that there could have been a better way so that it wouldn't have cost him. However, she tries to keep reminding herself that she didn't need to do that, that her boyfriend would remind her every time that he would do it again and again if it meant saving her. It would make her swell up in tears, knowing that the love they had for each other meant more than anything else. That included his own arm.
Feeling her senses like before, Kydan clutched her hand with his cybernetic one a bit tighter as he turned his back to her with a sweet smile, silently telling her that he was happy with the decision he had made back then. She returned the smile herself, moving a bit closer to him as they continued forward deeper into the temple, not once losing her hold on him.
They had been walking for some time now, at least about a half an hours worth. Their journey into the temple was very intriguing; they had spotted thousands of crystals, both big and small, formed into both the rocky ground, walls and in the water. Not to mention, many of them were attached to the temple before them, illuminating it just enough for them to have a good view of what it looked like. It just made them look at it in awe like before. Due to the situation with Grievous and his forces already within the temple, they decided to split into two groups; one that would head towards the signal within, while the other scouts out the place for anything, even some clankers. The group that wasn't with them were both Breona, Burner and the rest of the men who would have offered to investigate the other areas of the temple.
However, that soon will change.
As the group continued forward, they were met with a large challenge before them. Kydan, who reluctantly let go of his girlfriend's hand, signaled the others to halt as they reached what appeared to be a collapsed walkway that was once built here. They presumed that the bridge must have been destroyed long ago before any of them were even born, perhaps to the times of the High Republic era.
"Well, this is going to be a challenge," Degree gulped as he stared between the broken walkway and then looked down to the dark abyss below them. It was hard to tell how deep the crevasse was, but he was sure that no one would survive if they fell into it. "It doesn't look there's nothing to help us get across."
"Looks like we will have to turn back and find another way around it," Calena suggested to them, which in turn they all nodded in agreement. Just as she , Degree and the men began to turn back around, she looked and saw Kydan just staring across the walkway, almost motionless. "Kydan? You alright?"
He didn't even answer, let alone twitched a muscle. His mind was entirely focused on something else. A single voice inside his head. 'You're very close,' a young man's voice echoed into his mind as he continued to stare ahead at the other entrance on the opposite side. 'Come to us. We will be waiting...'
Blinking his eyes from his trance, he looked beyond the broken walkway for a brief moment before looking to Calena and the others. "No. We have to get other there."
"But how are we going to get over there, Kydan?" Degree questioned, most of the men nodding their heads in agreement. "We aren't exactly Jedi who can just...jump over there!"
"That's exactly what we are going to do Degree," Kydan grinned back, only fueling the confusion in their heads. "Calena and I will jump over to the opposite side, while you and the others make your way around the temple and meet us inside."
"Are you sure about this?" Calena questioned him, slightly concern of his idea. It wasn't that she didn't agree with his plan, it was only that his ideas can be a bit...reckless at times.
"I am," Kydan replied back, his tone sounding more serious than before. "Whatever, or whoever, is here are just beyond the entrance of the temple. We have to get over there, right now."
Although she was a bit hesitant with his plan, she completely trusted him nonetheless. If he said that they needed to get over there by jumping, then that's what they were going to do. She turned to Degree and her men. "Alright men, you have your orders. Kydan and I will jump across the broken bridge, while all of you find a different path that can lead into the temple. Am I understood?"
"Sir, yes sir!" Degree and the soldiers all shouted back, holstering their weapons as a sign of salute.
Degree then ushered the men to make their way around the temple as they all headed back towards the same way they had come from. Kydan and Calena watched them for a moment before they both looked back at the open crevice before them. Even though they both had done reckless things in their lives, they were pretty sure that this would probably reached the top of the list. Calena's face expressed worry as she could feel the fear rising inside her, not entirely sure that she could do this.
But that soon started to fade away as Kydan took her hand into his cybernetic one, staring at her with a confident and comforting smile. "You can do this, Cale'. I'll be right here with you."
Taking a deep breath and exhaling it out, she looked back to him as her own smile appeared. "Thanks, Ky'ie." She looked back to the big gap between them as she began taking big breaths to calm her. "You ready then?"
"Yep," Kydan inhaled for a moment before letting it out. "One..."
"Two..."
"THREE!" They both shouted as they immediately ran to the edge of the broken walkway and then used the Force to help them make a big jump over. When they were high in the air, just about centered between both sides of the walkway, they could see how wide and open the gap really looked from below. The jump between both sides was about a mile long, just barely enough to take a leap of faith. What seemed like time had slowed them both down, they were finally falling in mid air as their feet had just missed the gap in between. They collided and rolled across the ground for a moment before they were able to stop themselves.
They both groaned from the pain they had felt before they tried to get back up on their feet. Kydan got to his feet first before helping Calena get back on hers, both of them catching their breath after they realized that they were holding their breath since. They both looked to the opposite side of where they just were before they look to each other and laughed, happy and relieved that they were able to make it.
Their laughter died down as Calena spoke up. "You know, even though your idea seemed a bit scary at first, it actually worked out pretty well."
"Tell me about it," Kydan replied as his laughter soon died off as well. "But, just for the record, lets hope that we don't have to do that again."
"Agreed," she giggled with a smile. She then grabbed his right hand and began to pull on it a little. "So, you ready to move on?"
Not replying back, he just smirked at her as he pulled her closer to him while they made their way into the temple, their hands not letting go for a moment.
________________________________________________
Travelling for a little bit, the two were still holding hands and staying close to each other as they observed their surroundings before them. Unlike how it looked outside the place, they could see how old and ancient the temple really looked from within. They weren't exactly sure how old this place was, but they could conclude that the temple has been around for a lot longer than they could predict. Carvings and images looked very old to them, some of them either looking a bit familiar or at times known as well.
Just circling around a large lit pool of water, they soon saw an entrance that had some sort of indicating light source at the very top of the roof. The wall that was revealed carried some light source as well, revealing some kind of plant life growing between the entrance and walls. But as they approached closer, they noticed some sort of computer to the left side of the entrance. It seemed to be some strange technology, but it also had designs of older technology that they could recognize too.
As soon as they got closer and closer to the entrance and the computer, both their senses alerted them immediately as Kydan pulled Calena behind him and activated his purple lightsaber, the blade illuminating around them and before them once again. This time, however, the purple light revealed a strange man that stood before them. He had brown shaggy hair with a shadowed beard on his face. He also wore a vanilla colored tunic that could have been mistaken for Jedi clothing, however a bit of the design looked rather different from the viewpoint.
Kydan raised his blade to the strange young man, keeping Calena behind him still as both of them cautiously stared at him. "Who are you?!"
"We have been waiting for you," the man replied, not even moving a muscle as he continued to stare at them both. "I am happy to finally meet you, at last."
"Wait...your the voice that was speaking to me earlier," Kydan realized as he slowly lowered his blade. From behind, Calena looked between them both with curiosity and confusion, not entirely sure what he meant.
"Indeed I am," the young man smiled, looking between the two. "And I can see that you brought a friend as well. I will admit, I'd thought you would come alone."
"Wait a minute," Calena replied walking next to Kydan rather than hiding from behind. "What exactly do you mean? Who are you?"
"My name is Naaja Bondara," Naaja replied back. "This may sound weird to you both, but we believe that the Han'Shi has brought you here for a specific reason. Because of that, we wish to help you."
"We?" They both questioned, their own confusion rising even more. At that moment, a cloaked man wielding a golden staff appeared by the entrance as he stared at them both, his eyes watching their every move as if he was stalking his prey.
Sensing that both of them were becoming a bit suspicious, Naaja ushered them to follow. "Come. We have much to talk about."
________________________________________________
Here it is everyone, the long awaited chapter has finally arrived! This has been a long time coming, considering the editing and rewriting we went through to make this chapter and the next one after. But we are glad to say that we are very proud of this and really hope you all will too.
Not to mention, we are so excited to include three brand new characters in this chapter; Naaja Bondara, Zateara Chillos & the Master Guardian, who's name we won't reveal 'til later lol. We look forward to having these characters for future chapters and builds in our series.
As for the build itself; this was a trial and error challenge that I have been wanting to try and do for some time. Just by looking at it right now, the effects took a couple days to experiment with, including the illuminating light that was coming from the special effects lightsaber. The MOC is one of my favorites that I have so far, as this was the first of many that I began to change up my building skills to create better looking and detailed creations. I do hope you all have enjoyed this as much as I had building it.
That will be it for now, so thank you all so much for your wonderful support over the years. We really couldn't do it without any of you! So please, continue showing us your support and hit that like to let us know, as well as dropping a comment of your thoughts about it. Again, thank you all so much and have a fan-building-tastic day/night! See ya in the next one!
- Director KW & CGN
weakness comes
when we are alone
standing in a field
bracing the winds
surroundings change
but the roots are strong
transparent to the world
feeling naked and cold
searching for answers
finding little to lean on
it is in this solitude
we hear clearly
the reply
no rules, no limitations, no boundaries it's like an art
proverb - if you love someone, you must accept everything about them, even their faults or weaknesses
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
This is what happens when you're hungry and you go to a grocery store. You end up buying way too much food and getting stuff that you just "want to take pictures of".
I haven't eaten it yet. It's too pretty.
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
The first church collapsed due to the weakness of the foundations and was replaced in 1636 by a new church which also collapsed in 1780, to be rebuilt in 1782. It is surrounded by a defensive wall and has a bell tower on the west side. The baroque altar dates from 1641, the pulpit from 1764, and the organ from 1805. The tablets on the balustrade of the gallery were painted with saints and the coat of arms of the village of Ruși, in 1783, by the painter Daniel Knobloch . The last repair work was carried out in 1990.
👉Like the famous Pisa tower, the clock tower is reallyj leaning tired and heavy towards the ground. The tower was built in 1748, rebuilt in 1782, and began to tilt around the middle of the 19th century due to landslides. It was last consolidated in 1968, and now it has reached an inclination of about 1.45 m (18 degrees).
Is this not plain?
If you want to come alive to Jesus Christ, you must first die to what killed you. That being the LAW. The Bible clearly tells us, That the law kills, but the Spirit gives LIFE.
So do you want to remain dead under the Old Covenant of the LAW? Or come alive through FAITH in JESUS CHRIST, WHO IS THE SPIRIT OF LIFE?
God gave us a brand NEW COVENANT, in the very blood of Jesus. Don't try to combine the Old with the New, or as Jesus has said,
"No one pours new wine into old wineskins. If he does, the wine will burst the skins, and both the wine and the wineskins will be lost. No, he pours new wine into new wineskins." (Mark 2:22)
If you try to remain under the law, which is the Old wine skin. Both will be lost, and you'll end up with NOTHING, and remain dead!
So die to the what Killed you, that being the LAW, so you can come to LIFE IN JESUS CHRIST. Amen...
------------------------ JESUS ✝️ SAVES -------------------------
Grace and Peace to you from God our Father in the Lord Jesus Christ, FOREVER! Through Faith in Jesus!
10 The thief comes only to STEAL and KILL and DESTROY; I have come that they may have LIFE, and have it to the FULL. (John 10:10)
Jesus came to bring spiritual LIFE to the spiritually dead and set the captives FREE! FREE from RELIGION, ERROR and outright LIES, so they might serve THE LIVING GOD! In SPIRIT and in TRUTH!
For the best Biblical teaching in the last 2 centuries! Please listen to and down load these FREE audio files that were created with YOU in mind. It's ALL FREE, if you like it, please share it with others. ❤️ ✝️ ❤️
archive.org/details/PeopleToPeopleByBobGeorgeFREE-ARCHIVE...
CLICK THE LETTER "L" TO ENLARGE THE IMAGE.
My THANK'S to all those who have taken the time to view, fave, comment or share my photo's with others. I really appreciate it! ❤️
CBC day three: multi-layered
i had a moment of weakness yesterday and in an instant decided that doing this creativity boot camp was too much pressure and that i was a huge failure at it from the start and i deleted my set and erased my pictures from the group pool.
and yet i still checked the blog and still went home thinking about an idea for yesterday's theme. and so i've decided to stick it out because how awful could it really be to push myself? i've been itching to have this 365 done so i could spend some quality time with my camera shooting new subjects and branching out...what a better way to get started than to do this boot camp that conveniently ends the day before my last 365 :)
(353/12)
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath 'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual. This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting. In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset. Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'. This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant Tali Tamir August 2010
Since I have 5 years old, I always wanted to know how really happens under the girls skirts .
SPNC - Year 4 - Instruction # 06 "Shoot at noon ( 12h34.... Yes ! ) and like a 5-year old shooting for the first time."
But oh my heart, was flawed I knew my weakness
So hold my hand consign me not to darkness
So crawl on my belly 'til the sun goes down
I'll never wear your broken crown
Model: Wafia
Assistant: Lesley
I have seen similar photos, using paper crowns.
I haven't done anything like it before and wanted to experiment with a few editing techniques.
I think I may do a series with the paper crowns, since I liked it so much. Can't believe I'm half way through this project already!!!
Detail in comments
Facebook Page | 52 Week Blog | Personal Creative Blog (to read more about my adventures) | Tumblr | Instagram
the ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy.
Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it.
Through violence you may murder the liar but you cannot murder the lie, nor establish the truth.
Through violence you may murder the hater, but you do not murder the hate.
So it goes.
Returning violence for violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars.
Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.
Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.
Martin Luther King jr.
We lost ourselves in the miles that separated us. What we once thought would make us stronger only led us to more weakness.
You thought that the distance would have had your hands reaching for me, but you were always trying to hold on to something that not even your endurance could contain. Our craving for love was much different than our lack of patience, and I wish we would have known that before promising each other everything.
— Colleen Brown
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
August 2010
It seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. Before I even had a chance to fully process Ubu’s threat, I’d acted instinctively and seized my momentary window of weakness and struck Ubu with all the strength I could muster. Did I aim to sever his hand from his body? Perhaps it was simply an accident caused by anger at all that is transpiring. That’s what I keep trying to tell myself anyways. Deep down I know the truth and it is far simpler than I would care to admit.
My actions weren’t done by accident nor were they caused by reckless anger. I simply wanted to hurt Ubu, and this was the only way I knew how.
No doubt I’ll continue to question that for a long time to come, maybe I’ll excuse myself as having been faced with no other choice but to do so. The guilty often do try to self-justify their actions when they end up doing horrible things. I’m certainly not above all of that, in fact I’ve done it more times than I care to count.
Trying to convince Bruce to go through with his final trial is always the one that comes to mind, the look of horror and pain on his face still haunts me to this day. It was clear to anyone who cared to look that he would lay down his life before he would take another, and yet I persisted. He had to take a life. He just had to. If the Demon’s Heir is unwilling to do what is necessary and dedicate himself to the League, how can he ask others to do the same?
Ubu attempts to restrain himself from letting out a loud cry of pain, as he begins to process just what I’ve done. His dedication to my father’s teachings are ridiculous. Even now, with a severed limb, he refuses to show pain to his opponent even though it’s clear as day how hard he’s trying to restrain himself. Whilst he’s distracted, I take this moment to grab hold of his sword and throw it far enough away so there’s no possibility of him grabbing hold of it before I’m able to stop him.
As I pick up his blade, I can’t help but notice that the severed hand keeps twitching. They’re small twitches, but they’re almost impossible to ignore.
I’m sorry Ubu.
I didn’t want any of this to happen, but you gave me no choice.
The tone of his supressed grunts begins to subtly change as the reality of his situation becomes clear.
Whilst the Lazarus pit is capable of miracles, it can only heal and repair. It cannot create or replace, so his arm will stay that way for the rest of his days on this Earth and he knows it. Blinded by anger, he swings at me with his left hand clenched into a fist only for me to dodge it with relative ease. Deep down I know I should show him mercy and not harm him further, but I ignore that instinct and return the favour. In his dazed state, he fails to dodge and my fist collides with his nose appearing to break it in the process.
Before he has a chance to try and desperately lash out, I charge forward and pin him against the wall with my blade pressed close to his throat. If there’s any hope of extracting information from Ubu, now is the only chance I’ll get. Once he fully regains his senses and calms himself, he’ll become uncooperative and not give me anything.
To ensure he doesn’t trying anything foolish, I grab hold of what remains of his right arm and squeeze hard causing him to let a larger grunt as he tries to supress another cry of pain.
Talia: Talk Ubu. Where is he?
Ubu: Where…..is……who?
Rather than respond to that question, I squeeze his arm harder. Much to my surprise, he fails to supress his pain and lets out a loud scream. It’s worrying how happy hearing him in pain made me feel. At long last, the Demon’s Hand is shown to be human just the rest of us.
Talia: I know he’s gone after Damian. What else has he got planned?
Silence.
Also not the answer I want. How unfortunate for him. I take a step back and swipe my blade against his left arm to make him afraid. Evidently the pain from his severed hand is blocking his sense of pain for other parts of the body, as he hardly reacts to that wound. That’s quickly corrected when I return my blade to its position next to his throat and slowly moved it forward so that it lightly cuts into his throat.
Talia: Unless I start hearing answers, this blade will keep going.
Ubu: The…..
I retract my blade so he can properly speak.
Ubu: The pit…..
Talia: Your arm is beyond the pit’s powers I’m afraid. Tell me what my father has planned, or I’ll make the other one beyond repair as well.
Ubu: The pit won’t save him.
Talia: Won’t save who?
Is he talking about my father? Has the pit fully rejected him now?
Talia: Who Ubu? Who!?
Ubu: The deserter…..Once the Heir to the Demon has been freed from his cage, there will be nowhere for the deserter to hide…..nowhere we can’t find him…..and when the Demon’s Heir……is finished with him…..not even the pit will be able to save him….
Even now at my mercy, he mocks me. I like to think that I was left no choice. As I said before, the guilty often try to paint themselves as victims faced with poor choices. But the truth is I never had to do anything to Ubu. Disarmed, bloodied and defeated, I could have simply restrained him and moved on.
I probably should have done.
Instead, without hesitation, I swiped my blade against Ubu’s throat causing him to fall silent and collapse on the ground. Is he dead? I can’t be certain having not inspected the cut to see how deep it went. It’s perfectly possible that the sudden shock combined with blood loss merely caused him to lose consciousness…….
But I suspect otherwise.
I’m sorry it had to come to this Ubu. You deserved better.
For a moment or two, I stand in place, taking time to breath in and compose myself. Having to face Ubu….a man I’ve known my whole life…..it’s just….
That doesn’t matter right now. Ubu was merely a distraction just as these towers are. As I take a moment to clean my blade before sheathing it, I suddenly realise that I’ve not seen or heard from Tim since I sent him to shut down the tower. Maybe there was more than just Ubu and Ducain guarding this tower.
Damn it, Ubu might have been little more than a distraction whilst they isolated and targeted Tim.
I race to the door that leads further into the tower, ignoring Ubu’s sword as I pass it. Please let me be wrong…..
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
August 2010
Weesp is an upscale suburb of Amsterdam. It is a relaxed and charming place; perhaps too charming. The overabundance of delectables found there, both culinary and scenic, may in rare circumstances expose the unsuspecting tourist to certain risks. Such knowledge I found out the hard way. In wandering around the town, it didn’t take long for weakness and enervation to take hold. Later I learned that these were symptoms of a common complaint that may undo even the most vigorous visitor to Weesp: a surfeit of scenery and cappuccinos. Things came to a dangerous corner for this correspondent when there was a fainting episode on a quaint wooden drawbridge bedecked with a conglomeration of opulent hanging baskets. Here was manifest for the amusement of the local Weespians, another affliction common to out-of-towners; a petunia overdose...something Wilford Thesiger never had to worry about when he prepared to traverse the Empty Quarter.
After recovering from this frightening episode, the real reason for our visit to such a deceptive place came back to mind: to bring home a quantity of the local culinary delicacy, the wonderful almond-paste infused cookies made only there and nowhere else; the celebrated Weesper Moppen. From infancy I had been nurtured with the conviction that if ever I found myself in Weesp, buying a bushel of these rare crackers was a sacred duty....right up there with being able to run a four minute mile in twelve, and to play Hava Nagila “in-tune” on the viola.
With this charge in mind, we searched high and low amongst the narrow streets and canals of the town for these biscuits, but it must have been a day-off for the purveyors of the delicacy, for not one moppen made an appearance. Perhaps the elusive treasures showed themselves only during Dutch-Reformed Church festival weeks or the days surrounding the inauguration of the Weesp Community School Board. With frustration and sadness, we left the town with backpacks empty, vowing to return. To travel across the ocean, risk the bureaucratic entanglements of the Dutch border police (claimed by some to be the most scrutinising and capricious in the world) and only devote one day to such an important quest, would be a sad capitualition. Off we went to Muilden to see the incomparably quaint and historic Muiderslot Castle. But that is another story.
Back in Weesp the next day, we resumed the search. In the interest of contributing to the literature of abnormal psychology, it would be helpful to describe the cause of such compulsive culinary determination. Also, aren’t you dying to know? It is “a story unto itself” (to quote S.J. Perelman or the Kabala... I’m not sure which) a tale sadly rooted in the subtle machinations of a complex and sensitive psyche. That pioneering code-cracker Oliver Strachey would throw up his hands in defeat when confronted with such a tangled web; Professor Alfred Adler would lock the door to his consulting room at the prospect of having to hear the peevish ululations he knew would fill the next 45 minute consultation.
You guessed it bubba......the konk I'm referring to is my own.
In truth, leaving Weesp after our first visit without a container of Weesper Moppen was weighing on me; it was meddling with my mind. How such a trifling lacunae in the life of one who has faced far more grievous injuries and shrugged them off like they were lighter than a crown of feathers was proof of how spiritual obligations handed down through countless generations are able to topple even the heartiest specimen. What about the future? How could I return home to face the taunts of my own culinary community? The maledictions of my tribe were already audible in my frantic mind:
"There's the man who went to Weesp and couldn't find any Moppen”
Or even more damning:
He can uncover invertible counterpoint in a chaconne by Heinrich Ignaz Franz von Biber...he can find a viola da gamba consort in a suburb of Schenectady...but he can't find a friggin' Moppen in Weesp. What a rube..."
After a hearty meal and a few pours of Juttertje on the local Oudegracht to help fortify ourselves for the travails that we feared lay ahead, our convivial tavern host came to the rescue. Although we didn't know at the time that he was giving us directions to his brother-in-law's bakery (how could we have known?) the gent couldn't have been more gracious and informative. Armed with his excellent directions, my usual stratagems to get completely lost came to naught. That the bakery was directly next door helped us arrive at the MOPPEN PALACE (for such was the name of the shop) in less than an hour.
There it was, five steps away (which, as it turned out, was quite a distance (as I wear size 12s wide); the object of my geographical and spiritual travels. I could return to Mil-town, not only with an abundance of Weesper Moppens in my pocket, but with my head held high.
We went in there.
Could it be that our arrival at the bakery was expected? What brought this irrational suspicion to mind was the remarkable scene that was being enacted as we entered. Evidently, there had been a sudden change in prices of the pastries, because the agile proprietor was high up on a ladder, changing the advertised cost of the delicacies. Being unfamiliar with the subtle machinations of Dutch inflation, said by those in the know to be the most variable in the world, the optimist in me was able to cast aside any paranoia that might be inspired by such a scene. Undoubtedly the good baker was reducing the cost of the cookies by half in honor of the arrival of his distinguished customers. As usual, my market timing was impeccable. We wisely “bought the dip” and left the store with a gross of the wafers.
Damn those Weedpmoppen were tasty. Half of what we purchased was devoured before we left the country. The other half arrived back in Milwaukee to show off to an envious community. To them, I had only one snippet of advice. A weakening memory has erased what it was, but I do remember telling my former friends that down my hatch had just disappeared the last crumbly delights of that sublime confection; further mentioning that they were exquisite beyond anything Julia Child could concoct on a good day.
Also mentioned by way of comfort was that, for a small cash contribution to my great-grand nephew's college fund, I would be happy to divulge an address searched for by many and known to only a few: The MOPPEN PALACE in Weesp.
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Just because something is over does not mean that we can't look back on a time fondly. It's not a weakness to finish something and not hate a person.
Strength is not moving on and forgetting about and resenting a person. Strength is coming to terms with an end knowing that the world keeps turning whether we like it or not.
That's what makes us who we are.
Everyone you've ever loved and lost in any capacity has shaped you in one way or another.
We grow from pain and heartache and everything else that is thrown at us in life.
I love these photos that in my eyes are so raw with feelings of the greatest time in my 23 years of life. Why wouldn't I share them when to me, they contain such beauty?
As I've grown in my photography I've come to learn that I live and love through the photographs that I take. It's both a blessing and a curse. My only regret is that I didn't share these particular photos earlier when maybe they mattered more.
These photos were made in March 2015 between my home in Blackburn, Manchester and Bangor, Wales.
It was a whirlwind few days. Stressful. And without her, I'm not sure I could have done it.
And I don't say that lightly as I'm used to being alone and having to cope by myself.
I wanted to shoot this natural beauty on black and white film with my old Olympus OM10. The idea being that I wanted to have some tangible, physical memories. Not just something floating around in the digital ether as is most always the case these days.
When you shoot on film you don't just take as many photos as you can and hope at least one of them looks good. You put your faith in every click of those 26 shots that whatever it is that you're looking at is in focus and that the shutter speed is set right and you've got the right aperture for the ISO of the film.
You think about every. Last. Shot.
Every one counts.
When it came to developing the film it was her birthday and I was shaking. One wrong move and the photos would be gone, lost forever.
I thought I'd almost messed up after I accidentally exposed the film whilst pouring out the stop-bath. Thankfully not.
Digital is a godsend in this world of ever-greater immediacy.
However, there's nothing quite like shooting film.
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Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
August 2010
Unofficial name: "Wonder Boy"
Name: Troye Drakos
Age: 16
Affiliation: Hero
Species: Amazon Human
Abilities: Increased Strength, Speed, Stamina, Agility, the power to walk across water and mastery of several forms of armed and unarmed combat, also are the personalised gifts of the goddesses of Olympus; hunting skills (Artemis), warm/home skills (Hestia), Unbeknownst wisdom (Athena) and beauty inside and out (Aphrodite)
Weakness: Trust issues
Troye’s story is propelled forward from before his birth. A man from the outside world had been washed up on a secluded cove on the Amazon Island alone and weak he was discovered by one of the Amazons. Her name was Euryleia a wanderer who would often leave the kingdom to explore the island, usually gone for weeks at a time. She was a kind woman, sworn off from violence preferring the comfort of peace in nature and knowledge in writing. Seeing the man so weak and helpless made herself sympathise with him, knowing of the bloodshed the Amazonians had faced years ago she tended to his wounds in hopes of reviving him. But she took him from the shore away from those who may find him as if they did she know he would not be allowed to live. Once he gained consciousness in the days that followed she talked with him sharing their stories as he recovered to pass time. She discovered his name was Reagan Drakos a fisherman who’d got caught in a cyclone downing his boat and getting him washed out to sea, he had no relatives and lived a solitary life through their discussions. Through time the two grew close and in secret their love bloomed.
Several months had passed and a child was born, being one of the first in a long time in Amazon history. But Euryleia was blessed with a boy; Born a male into a society of woman the newborn dubbed Troye by his father would have been considered an abomination to the inhabitants of Themyscira if his existence was discovered along with his father. With an Amazon mother and a human father he was kept in secret within one of the few places Hippolyta does not know of in the depths of the jungles. He grew with his father away from outside contact; only with that of his mother would go to see him often teaching him new things with each visit. He soon learnt to read and write with his father’s help and hunt and fight with his mother. Though the outside world was a mystery to him and he knew not of what was beyond the boundaries his parents had created for him. But as he was young and rather reckless one night when he was 9 and when his mother was away to keep up appearances in the kingdom and his father was asleep, he crept away and through the boundaries they had created. Sneaking through the jungles of the island he soon found a flickering source of light he’d identify as fire, something he didn’t see often as Mother had said that it would attract people he would not like to meet. In curiosity Troye followed the light source until he came across a magnificent sight. Huge stone structures like those he’d seen in the books his Mother had given him and rivers and waterfalls snaking in between them and above all from his hiding spot just at the edge of the open area were people. Woman all dressed in armour and robes walking and talking in the night. He’d never seen so many people. And from his spot he saw his Mother talking with somebody down below. Not knowing the consequences of his actions Troye stood up from his place and walked straight out and into plain sight from all around. Suddenly the slight silence from before just stopped, being replaced with that of a different kind, a more sinister kind that just hung in the air.
“Man!”
The word was shouted loud and clear breaking the silence. He saw his Mother’s head whip round a face of horror placed upon her head. ‘Run’ she mouthed. Troye darted round an arrow embedding itself in the ground of where he stood. He ran back to his father, again with thinking with the Amazon warriors close behind, he was a man in place where it was forbidden to be so and was leading them to his father, someone who would surely be gutted when seen.
“Father!” Troye cried as he entered their clearing running towards the small hut he lived in with his Father. The wind was knocked from his body before he could reach it, someone had caught up to him and had tackled him to the ground.
“You do not belong here, male!” The Amazon warrior spat. She had a knife in her hand and it was soon raised above his throat. She began to bring down the knife but was kicked away by someone else. His Mother, she was here to save him! But soon other Amazons quickly arrived outnumbering his Mother and surrounding the area. His Father was outside now too clutching his own knife, snarling at the warrior woman. Troye at this point was digging around in the leaves, he had his own dagger he’d kept on the forest floor, and he hoped he’d help his parents fend of the others. But before anything could happen she arrived. Hippolyta, Troye only learnt who she was later but at this moment things happened very fast. With silent commands from her the Amazons lowered their weapons.
“Euryleia” She spoke his Mother’s name and silence followed, staring right at her with eyes like knives. That look said everything.
“And my sisters! You should no better, the boy is merely a child, he knows not of who he is or who we are, we are not to kill him as he has done us no wrong. But his Father can die.” She ordered and suddenly a sword pierced his Fathers chest, in unison his Mother and him cried no. She fell to her knees as he fell to the ground.
“How could you!” She shrieked at Hippolyta.
“How could you!”
“Silence Euryleia! You have broken are most sacred rules and beliefs, you are not our sister, and your son does not belong here either” Hippolyta interrupted Troye’s Mother. Troye doesn’t recall what followed but key parts are vivid in his memory, his Mother being carried off, the looks he got from the warriors and the talk Hippolyta gave him, explaining everything, but only increasing his knowledge that the reasons for what happened made no sense. His memory than fades.
He was brought to Hephaestus’ realm and made to work in his forges as one of his slaves. Though he was kept alone from the others, a punishment Hippolyta had probably devised, he’d been kept from others his entire life, and this was no difference. He was alone, but even more than ever before.
He thought he would’ve been kept there for the rest of his days that may have been considerably short with how he had been treated, until someone appeared to free them, He’d been there 6 years and he was about to be free. The other slaves called her Wonder Woman as he joined them in the sunlight that blinded him after being kept in the darkness for so long. She led them away, leading the charge against Hephaestus’ creations and guards, joined by Troye and the other slaves in their fight for freedom.
After the smoke had cleared and all had calmed, Troye approached the warrior with caution. She was polishing a sword at the time preparing to leave for man’s world. Troye told her of his father and how he had never seen man’s world, a world he was part of. She smiled upon him and they talked and learnt of each other. And Diana agreed to take Troye to man’s world to find his own way in the world outside. But he kept his Amazon heritage from her, not trusting her completely despite what he thought of her as someone he could trust. He came to man's world to learn of his father and to find his way in life. What he would do, what he should do and what he could do were questions that plague him not knowing what path he should follow.
Following after Wonder Woman he stopped injustice in his own way, but kept his focus on the discovery of the foreign world, again still not sure what he's doing in his search, but because of his acts he was given the nickname from the public ‘Wonder Boy’, because of his choice of armed defence and height, a name he’s not to fond of.
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
August 2010
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
August 2010
My only weakness
You know all my secrets
I can't stop loving you
Your kiss is the sweetest
You look like magic
One touch and I've had it
I can't stop wanting you
Oh, I'm an addict
I wanna come with you
I get undone with you
Let me be one with you
Oh after all this time,
I wanna make you mine
I wanna reignite our love
Still after all this time
Sent shivers up my spine
Darling I can't give up on love
Oh let me reignite our love
I wanna touch you
I'm not here to judge you
Just take what you want from me
And let me indulge you
I can't stop loving you
I can't stop needing you
I can't stop wanting you
There ain't nobody
I can't say no to you
Darling you're living proof
Right in the depths of my soul you will stay
youtu.be/yMgUPU1wlBs?list=PLNJFtZtPz-JnRIDGiLPyj1oVsernkVw_p
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir