So this is what I spent the afternoon drawing just to see if I could.
It’s sad isn’t it?
The small things
The beautiful things
The things that mean something
Will always be seen as nothing.
It’s the art on display
That hears what they say.
The words of eloquently spilling Read more »
Gleaming metal trunk,
Sections gracefully melded
Limbs crooked and broken.
Shining silver branches
Reach for the heavens.
Erupting from the earth
Reflecting the sun
In tangles of silver.
Ethereal tree, stillborn,
In a forest, ephemeral.
Let's scream dreams to flat screens and claim the
thirsty theatrical world, reeling in the aftershock of the
thousand songs it's heard.
Plastic screens cast faces in empty shades of pale and the people
fight for pieces because no one wants to fail. Let's paint pictures in the
oil-scraping sun and let's scream dreams at the
unresponsive million, begging for that single drop of
recognition, let's cry superstition at any apparition of the
unattainable, the half-suspicion, the terrible attrition, the unsustainable –
we live corrugated cardboard, hollow empty boxes,
banging on the locked doors, writing love songs for the
unsung, because we're always young, erudite and Read more »
I draw ears.
Most artists draw eyes, staring off of the page, or mouths, or hands.
I have never heard of someone who draws ears.
Is it really so strange, though?
I mean, you can always tell by the ears.
The people who have beautiful ears are almost always the nicest.
The misshapen, lumpy monstrosity-types are grumps.
There are, of course, exceptions, but generally, this is true. So why shouldn't I draw ears? Once you draw the ears, you can draw the entire person. Read more »
I can still remember the last day of art class in sixth grade. Nobody liked our old teacher, with her crooked face that was once affected by some disease, some distant disease before our time. Nothing mattered except for us – nothing except what was right in front of us, nothing except for us in the present. Read more »
Author: James Patterson
Artist: NaRae Lee
Summary: Maximum Ride and her Flock have been captured by the Whitecoats at the evil School. But when they escape, they now have a purpose: to find the Institute, a place that may hold the answers to where they come from and who they really are…
When I was twelve, I got crazy into the Maximum Ride series. I thought they were some of the best written, most action-packed, coolest books on the face of the Earth. Read more »
I didn't know what it was.
Everyone made one and they even had names for them.
Everyone had one except me.
They were animals of some sort.
I didn't call them by their names -
I just called them THINGS!
"Ivy, Ivy, Ivy. For the millionth time, use the brush straight up and down. Long strokes, not short." Tyson muttered over my shoulder.
I tried doing as he said, but his voice only made me more nervous. My hand fought with my brain and went down to up in short strokes. I heard him sigh. Read more »
My favorite subject is art. In art I can draw, paint, sculpt and make portraits. I like art and I think you will, too. Have you ever built a building out of marshmallows and toothpicks? Well, that's art!
Where art thou?
hath the sleepless nights
and many fights
finally gotten through?
Hath the jealously
written all over thy's face
caused thou to travel to another place?
I cannot fathom being alone, my love,
Won't thou come back to me?
Thy hath many bruises,
inside and out,
but that won't cause me to take an opposite route
After thy's previous relationship
I have seen thou often slip
But don't worry, I will steady thou
The art of paraffin
Homeschooled, Grade 5
Leaping from the frozen blue of hard paraffin, my work of art almost hangs in the air, unbreathing. Behind this amazing mammal are the waves that fly unmoving, birthed by the sudden rising of the seamless wax body of the creature. The water’s grip struggles to pull the beast back into its depths. The seamless drops of wax do not fall, and the animal does not continue its flight. The wax has been heated to liquid, cooled to near solid, molded to a smooth beauty, and finally hardened into perfect solidity to stay that way. This is the beauty and legacy of something natural in something manmade.
This is a description of a wax sculpture of a dolphin rising out of the ocean. I made it for my mother for Christmas 2008.
There were 20 of them!
Each work of art my own gem
Walking into that room filled me with glee
When art is seen some may want to flee
But I rejoice and sing with delight
At the Baroque art that is always right
The Vermeers look upon me with stares
The maidens within them saying silent prayers
My face brightens with the view of portraits ago
The European wing will always grow
The quiet room makes me feel at home
Each painting will make me never roam
These famous pieces will forever stay
One singing the song of a revolution day
Another echoing a noble’s face
A piece with a mother and child embrace
Each piece explains a different tale
Of the colors that put them into proportionate scale
But the most important part of this gallery of voices
Is it brings out my own independent choices
In a Blue Mood
By Lea Cosette Stephenson
Woodstock Union High School, Grade 10
I rise out of bed on a pleasant day
Hoping to keep my feelings at bay
I’m a painter with a wounded heart
My woman left me which shows in my art
The mixing of paints with a common tone
Erupt to represent my depressing zone
A painting with a hunched man over a guitar
Is an example of my everlasting scar
Every artist comes into one of these moods
Finally expressing oneself with mixed nudes
Some know me as a Spanish bald man
But the art world sees me with a single color in my clan
Children look upon my work with wonder and awe
Art critics might catch some of my flaws
But my fellow artists always say something that is true
“I have never seen such a brilliant shade of blue.”
I think that this is a really beautiful concept:
"The "Birth Clock" is a fragile glass object containing a digital clock that is not working; it is designed to help you to come to a decision when you're stuck at a specific point in life. Smash the glass, and the clock will start to work, leaving you with the broken object as a reminder of your dramatic decision. Leave the object as it is, and you remain out of time, having the beautiful object as a reminder of your resistance to change. What would you do?"
Maybe a good prompt?
Let me know.
Looking through a portfolio
fifth grade artwork,
back when I painted
what was the trigger
that provoked me to start
When did I