Tag Archives: surreal

Finding Joy in Subtlety

By Clint Cline

Ellipticae

Pythagoras Smiling

Flight of Thought

Le Rendezvous

The Man Who Spoke Riddles In Rhyme

Quarter to Three

That’s How I Feel

Tension

PinballWizard

Elohim | The creation of thought

Fresh | Fenced

I Had A Green Box

And then again

The Cleric

 

Artist: Clint Cline

Clint Cline is a Florida-based iPhonic artist. He is also a writer and designer and has worked in visual communications since 1973.

His work variously explores the abstract and surreal co-mingled with fine art images and graphic interpretations of both contemporary and timeless themes that explore the interrelation of culture and faith.

His exhibitions include: Exposition d’Iphonographie in Venarey, France (Jury Award); Worldwide iPhoneography Art Movement (WiAM), Naples, Italy; SoHo Gallery of Digital Design, New York City, New York; LA Mobile Arts Festival, Los Angeles; “Lens as Palette” Exhibition, Denver; and #MOBIU1023 Experience, Chicago.

Cline’s work has been recognized for excellence within the iPhoneography community, most notably with a notation of excellence as a finalist in the IPA Mobile Art Grant Awards and as a Founders Choice Honorable Mention in the Mobile Photography Awards. His body of work has been featured at WeAreJuxt.com and at iArtChronicles.com. His work is also featured regularly at P1xels.com, a leading iphonic art site, and been selected in weekly features at LifeInLoFi’s Faved on Flickr, iPhoneogenic.com, iPhoneographyCentral.com, and at theAppWhisperer.com.

Cline is a founding artist with The International iPhoneography Group (TIiG) and NEM: The New Era Museum.

Flickr
https://www.flickr.com/photos/clix2020/

FaceBook
https://www.facebook.com/clint.cline.IP

Instagram
https://www.instagram.com/clixit2020/

 

 

 

So Close, So Far

by pastiche.in

My surreal world

My surreal world

Welcome to my surreal world. It’s not an effort, it’s a way of life. It is personal, it is intellectual, it is romantic and most of all, it is real.

 

Shaded

Shaded

All of us trying to forget someone. But I know I won’t be able to forget, I can only forgive.

 

Round and Round

Round and Round

Follow me down to the valley bellow. Moonlight is bleeding, out of your soul.

 

Let's go on an adventure

Let’s go on an adventure

Please, take risks.

Fear keeps us focused on our past or worried about the future. If we can just learn to overcome our fear, we can realise that right now, we are okay.

At this moment, you can hear the voices and see the beautiful faces of our loved ones. But that’s not it. Life has much deeper meaning to itself and we must fulfil it. That can only be done by breaking the limits of human imagination, by doing the impossible. You won’t know until you try.

 

Bubble Galaxy

Bubble Galaxy

Never underestimate yourself. Every idea or a thought you get is worth a lot. People often think it’s not good enough and drop it but just give it some time and take it forward. You never know what’s worth what.

 

Unconditional

Unconditional

I will love you like I love the colour blue.

 

Don't hold me back

Don’t hold me back

But, even if you colour them with beautiful feelings, they’ll still cry and they’ll still smile.

 

Coloured Hands

Coloured Hands

Yes, I’ve been failed a couple of times. There were situations where I felt this is just unreal and everything was falling apart. What do you do during these times?

Some people survive and talk about it. Some survive and go unnoticed. Some survive, heal and create.
I survived and inspired myself. Looking back tells me, I found parts of me that I thought never existed. Now, I just grow. The notion of getting better each day inspires me and I vow to help myself love life.

Remember, the pain you suffer is never wasted.

 

Looking for alternate place

Looking for alternate place

Everyone’s talking about escaping. Always thinking. Always dreaming.

 

How can I make it possible

How can I make it possible

So close, yet so far.

 

Inseparable

Inseparable

You can be the ocean, I’ll be the shore.

 

Why

Why

The burden is real, isn’t it?

 

Crooked you

Crooked you

Home? What does it mean? It’s different for different people.It might be a place, a thing, a moment to re-live, a feeling.

For me, it is a person.

 

Blurred lines

Blurred lines

Miles apart
they sat down near a window
face against the glass
He exhaled. She knew it was him.
Never knew the names
only the eyes.
He was a clown, she had cancer,
she never cried around him
he never wore a mask.
They stared at each other
infinity in the eyes
they both saw a never-ending path
they both found destiny.
Then came the day
he was left alone but in abundance
like a shattered piece of glass
with a less comforting silence.
Rest of the life he wrote his heart out
on a paper in his diary.
It was his imagination
and her love.
And every time it rained
each conversation a paperboat
floated away with a secret tale.

 

Desert divers

Desert divers

The worst thing is watching someone drown and not being able to convince them that they can save themselves by just standing up.

It then turns to one of those upsetting moments when you lose respect for someone you really cared.

 

People ruin everything

People ruin everything

One of the things I recently realised is that, people ruin beautiful things.
Travel, love, inspire, experience and tell nobody.
People expect.
People judge.
People kill happiness.

 

Materialistic Society

Materialistic Society

Digital lie.
People matter.
Talk to each other.
Look in the eyes instead of looking at the texts and mails.
Hold hands instead of holding phones.
Gather more moments and less pictures of those moments that you just wasted taking a picture.
Use the digital generation for what they are supposed to but don’t let it consume you.
Don’t forget that we live in a physical world where people, emotions and feelings matter.
Embrace them. Would you?

 

Smoke on the universe

Smoke on the universe

The planet is fine.
The people are fucked.

 

Words

Words

Can you see your days blighted by darkness?
Is it true you beat your fists on the floor?
Stuck in a world of isolation
While the ivy grows over the door – Pink Floyd( Lost for words)

 

Small world

Small world

Let’s celebrate the light and the space. We often underestimate them.

 

Artist: pastiche.in

I’m a Digital Artist from India, currently studying Architecture at Oxford School of Architecture. I make surreal collages to communicate ideas and emotions and I think that I’ve found a way for my brain to have orgasms.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pastiche.in/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/pastiche.in/

Society 6: https://society6.com/pasticheart

 

 

Humbled Artist

by Fei Alexander

Dance With The Wind White Color

Dance With The Wind

Paradise Of Holy Sakyamuni

Paradise Of Holy Sakyamuni

Monalisa

Monalisa

Silent volcano

Silent volcano

The Buddha

The Buddha

last supper 2

last supper

Memory Layers

Memory Layers

mirror

mirror

Red Echo

Red Echo

Love

Love

nervously relaxing

nervously relaxing

Red impression

Red impression

CONFUSED

CONFUSED

Freedom

Freedom

A Bird's Chinese Vision

A Bird’s Chinese Vision

 

Artist: Fei Alexander

Fei AlexanderAbout Fei:

from an Article in the “SOUTH BAY PEOPLE” magazine- issue 1, Pg10-11, April 2004
“Easy Reader” newspaper- issue June 24th, 2004 at the ‘Easy Weekend’ section Pg 41/ Pg 47
—- By Art Editor & Journalist Bondo Wyszpolski of the “EASY READER” newspaper & “South Bay People” magazine

The hardest part is facing the blank canvas… But those two or three hours staring at the bare surface are not wasted. The visualizing is a necessary part of the process, and during these moments of seeming inactivity Alexander is contemplating what forms to use, where they’ll go, and what colors or color scheme she’ll employ. The painting is then painted quickly. Except for the details, the piece is completed in less time than she spent working it out in her mind. It is a luxury to be able to paint in this manner…

Alexander does not limit herself to one style of painting, With some artists, it’s clear that everything they create resembles or seems a variation of their other work. But if one looks at Alexander’s work it seems, at first glance, to be a collection of pictures by a variety of artists. Without actually seeing these works, some people might assume that Alexander hasn’t yet found her true calling. What seems closer to the truth is that this artist is brimming with all kind of ideas and is not afraid to explore them.

For instance, about three years ago Alexander began experimenting with the canvas itself, breaking out of the conventional square of rectangular format and coming up with pictures that, physically, had rounded or curved edges. Other canvases she separated, and then realigned or over-lapped their segments. For this writer, there is an organic sense that emerges, as if the picture is liberated out of its usual confines- and more free, too, to actively engage the viewer. For Alexander, this experimenting is a part of her notion that ‘ the fading, the dust, the peeling of a painting as time passes are all supposed to belong to the life of a painting, just like our own lives.’ Suddenly, the frame- as a protective and a decrative [sic] device- is no longer so relevant.

Over the last year or so, Alexander has taken used frames and attached burlap to the back, which hangs down well below the bottom of the frame. Often, the burlap is then braided. This is a feature that again complements or plays against the canvas, but Alexander emphasizes that the focus is still painting as painting, not painting as craft. The current work outwardly, but much of it combines modern painting technique with traditional Asian spirituality. Her intention, as she said is to invite viewers to take time to glance at their inner soul, sensibility and thought. In other words, the quiet look within may lead to self-discovery. Alexander believes that art fuels living energy, that it comes from life and reflects life. She feels, also, that although artists have the creative ability to express their emotions from different angles, they need to work hard and be willing to risk more than the usual person does when they confront and engage their inner selves. The gains may be minimal, and sometimes can scarcely be measured but the reward is in the attempt to do the best. With what is available within.

Through her painting, Fei Alexander expresses vision and heritage, the physical form and its spiritual emanation.

Website: http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/fei-alexander.html

 

The Keeper of the Art

by Nola Kelsey

Some artist’s stories simply cannot be separated from one another or the canvas would be blank. I am not an overly emotional being. Not self-analytical, nor prone to spontaneous outbreaks of poetry, as many creative spirits appear to be. That was my mother,  artist/poet/teacher, Avonelle Kelsey (1931-2009), a diverse, unstoppable force in the San Diego area art scene for nearly three decades. Born to create, Mom lived life in full color. Much to her dismay, I was born fully dressed in dull beige Zoo Keeper garb – all Zoology, all the time. Life science was my true passion. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed great art, galleries, etc. After all, I was raised in her studios. But my life was 95% wildlife, 4.5% art and everything else (if there was anything else) blurred inconsequentially off to the sides. Such it was for 44 years. And then it happened.

Upon Avonelle’s death, I became responsible for an astronomical amount of artwork. I also had a significantly pesky oath. In her final years, Mom repeatedly made me swear to protect her creations. Along with that responsibility, I had inadvertently become the keeper of her creative legacy. Shit! This was not zoology. Yet, it was evolution. She finally got me.

My transformation from science fanatic to artist obsessive was startlingly was fast. A  year long art sale began with a growing intimacy to each of Mom’s paintings during multiple photo sessions.  Sculpture were matched to her written works and/or paintings. Questions were researched for collectors. So much packing and shipping. Lastly there was the book. That sneaky, buggery book. I was already an author. Years earlier my inability to play well with others had taken me from working with animals to writing about them, mostly in the form of educating travelers about animals within the pages of detail-heavy travel guides focused on global volunteer programs. But then came Mom’s book.

Working with all those images of paintings it hit me like a ton of clay. The formatting, creating of marketing materials, cover design–that was what I loved about writing books. I produced travel guides so efficiently because I was anticipating getting to the next cover design. Good news, I actually hated writing! Bam! I was back in college studying Graphic Design within a month. Three years later, I can’t imagine not creating every day. As an artist I admittedly am a fledgling,  still learning,  still growing. I am also still 4.5% zoologist,  communicating messages about nature and animals, care and conservation, but I have evolved to do so visually – much to my own dismay.

Deprived is a surreal artwork by Nola Lee Kelsey created as an editorial protest against the practice of depriving millions of girls and women around the world an education, for no other reason than they are female.

Deprived

The surreal digital artwork entitled, Colorist, was created by artist Nola Lee Kelsey as part of her series of abstract portraits. Accoring to the good peole at Wikipedia: "In comics, a colorist is responsible for adding color to black-and-white line art. For most of the 20th century this was done using brushes and dyes which were then used as guides to produce the printing plates." While the Urabn Dictionary say: "A colorist is anyone who partakes in the activity of coloring (digitally or traditionally) drawings, inked or penciled, which are typically rendered by other artists. Colorists can either work as professionals or amateurs, and utilize styles that are either very generic or very unique. Colorists work either for recreational or professional purposes. Recreational colorists usually color for one of two reasons: personal enjoyment, or popularity. Coloring gives those who struggle with rendering opportunities to shine in special art communities without doing what they lack in. Consequently, this is often seen as a shortcoming by critics, especially if the original artists of drawings or linearts do not specifically need the assistance of colorists." In any event, for the artist, Nola Lee Kelsey, this work was all about color!

Colorist

Naturalist is part of a series of surreal portraits I originally began creating as part of a digital artistry course. After my first artwork, 'Deprived' for the class, the muse just took hold of me. More portraits poured out of me. Naturalist is the fifth work in the series. No doubt, more will follow in 2016. As a zoologist who evolved toward art in mid-life, this is the portrait I think of most as being me. It is not a self portrait, but nature is always on my mind and part of my life.

Naturalist

'Honey' is one of several in an ongoing series of surreal women I have been creating over the last few months and I have no doubt there will be more to come.

Honey

Songwriter is a digital artwork filled with many musical symbols. Thank you to Faestock (http://faestock.deviantart.com) for use of the underlying model photo.

Songwriter

Birder is a digital artwork by aritst Nola Lee Kelsey. Birder is the 6th in my series of surreal digital portraits. All animals fascinate me, but this particular portrait comes with a special little story. The week I worked on 'Birder' I, as with most my artwork, became so engrossed in the art that I skipped my morning bike rides. Meanwhile, three feet away from my desk, through the outside wall, something ironic, yet charming, was happening. As I walked into my carport one morning I noticed a bird nest in the basket on my long-ignored mountain bike. Had I found it, picking it up to take a photo then forgotten? Why had I just spent a day working on the nest in the art work when I had this one? Did a bird actually build it here among the dogs and motorcycles? The answers became obvious when two days later I found two small eggs in the nest inside my bicycle basket. As I write this description, mamma bird is sitting on them just outside my window. Life is funny sometimes.

Birder

'Ocean' was created by digital artist Nola Lee Kelsey. It is the 8th piece in her surreal portrait series. This artwork is an editorial statement against the polluting of our seas and ongoing drilling for oil, despite the fact that in the end we will still need to harness renewable energy sources such as solar and wind power. Why not just do it now? We need healthy seas to exist - not oil spills. No amount of cleaning and technology can repair the balance of life it took nature billions of years to perfect. Oil and water do not mix.

Ocean

Flora and Fauna is a surrealistic artwork by artist Nola Lee Kelsey. Flora and Fauna is considered part of Kelsey's surreal poortrait series.

Flora and Fauna

"Crested Gibbon" by artist Nola Lee Kelsey capture in Cambosia

Crested Gibbon

“A single occurrence, no matter how small, can change the course of the universe forever.” is what the text across the image reads. An old Chinese proverb states that a butterfly's gently flapping wings in China has the power to dramatically affect weather on the other side of the world. The butterfly effect metaphor encapsulates the concept of sensitive dependence on initial conditions in chaos theory; namely a small change at one place in a complex system can have large effects elsewhere.

Contemplating the Butterfly Effect

Asperger's

Asperger’s

Rift

Rift

About the Ostrich

About the Ostrich

Kanji Zen with Enso

Kanji Zen with Enso

Live Art

Live Your Art

Nola Lee Kelsey is an American-born Digital Artist living in Southern Thailand. In addition to creating and selling prints from her own artwork, Nola also has a wide range of online shops where her digital images, and her late mother’s fine art paintings, are used to create a wide variety of uniquely artistic merchandise.

Nola Lee Kelsey Gallery: http://www.NolaKelsey.com

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/Nola_Lee_Kelsey

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Nola_Lee_Kelsey

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/nolaleekelsey

Avonelle Kelsey Gallery: http://www.AvonelleKelsey.com

The Boviniad

An excerpt from The Boviniad
by Nathan D. Jerpe
Illustrations by Maxwell Sebastian

BOOK ONE: THE INJECTION

CANTO I

A Venus arrival – Pantamoolian geometry Exploring the interior – An invocation

Dream back, my pupils, to a vanished time,
when rampant did the groves of Venus grow
with multiplying vines and shooting sprouts;
when rain in fat droplets fell soft to nurse
her ranks of teeming moss, and a gauze
of golden cream enwrapped her like a shroud.
Confounding was her dance, and incomplete,
with steps reversed from what her siblings tread,
whom vast walls of distance had left untouched,
except for one, third closest of the brood,
across whom the sons and daughters of Man
had marched and sailed for an age, even then.
Through miles beyond the imponderable wells,
where gravitationís rope can bring all kinds
to clutch her breast, unbeknownst to themselves
and unrehearsed, where shrined in starry vaults
of space she seems a soft and distant ball,
the bovine blimps of old came drifting,
unannounced, slow and full of clout unspent,
perchance to hail from Saturn’s moons
or Pluto’s black and tenebrous caves,
or farther still, beyond the Oort cloud,
connected hence by wormhole gates,
although, truth be told, these children of Man
knew scarcely more of the bovines’ homes
than what intent they had in leaving them.

They were seven in number, and made no sign
to greet, much less strike down, their earthly hosts,
who in recent past had sailed for the Moon
to dredge the vast mares of Imbrium there,
while Venus garlanded with bovines turned.
The cows were city-sized, set still as clouds,
and gathered round the known libration points,
their soft hair warmed by the airless breeze
that hides in the furrows of celestial paths.
And from their pale rumps there erupted spikes
of colossal heights and symmetries,
like shards of a mountainous alpine range,
while far away in high cranial realms
beneath globulous eyes, unwinking and wet,
there came such miles of unrolled tongue
to where a bell hung round each neck, never rung.
Farther on then, on a median plane,
and down past the udders to hooves so large
they might trample to dust the very stars,
or sundering fall to valiant seas.
And thus gone to become islands of note,
filled up by men who would gouge them to load
their vats with keratin and glue,
while at the ports of less adhesive lands 
those dreamers, who lacked the means to send
the merest gift by Venusian post
might look to the cows in the starlit skies
with worship glowing in their stares.

Pantamoolians – in time would Man bequeath
this name to these first of the bovine fleet,
and proclaim the fourth, which as Delta we know
to be their chief, if only for her size,
and the fearsome spikes her valleys made.
Intrepid folk with a luxury of means
went forth to explore, quite cautious at first,
then soon without mishap coming closer,
their fears vanquished by plain curiosity,
and questions that would make a schoolmarm blanch,
so eager to know of the viscera there,
whether they would match those of earthly stock
or were fleeting instead, phantom spleens,
with luminiferous aether inside.
Swift the able seekers came forth to mount
their telescopes on all the ventral parts
where the views of Venus, though much improved,
were still beclouded in the eyes of Man,
who with ardor burned as much for her
as sheep from their herdsman cast adrift.

The inside was next, so often of a place
the last a guest is authorized to see.
They chose the tear duct for the first sally,
but subsequent tours proved the rump
far better, for mounting the needle and syringe.
The needle’s shaft was wide enough to host
a ship intact, and gave them the means
to breach the epidermis in a wink.
In light of this, merchants arrived in droves,
with scents of profits heretofore unwhiffed,
of slices to ship back home as gifts
for those most eager to impress their friends
with the joint of a starfaring beeve.
What was the harm, if some gathering crane
drew out, with its hooks, a pound here or there?
The cows were the size of dominant towns
and larded with much flesh to spare.

And so, such as it was, that in the wake
of such enterprising folk began to form
new companies arrayed with pleasure ships,
not so unlike those which had come before,
but with a mind to spare all pretense of trade;
instead these came with promises and cheer,
a chance for men of a commoner sort
to take in all the sights, to learn the names
of all the newly discovered places.
O heed us then, Calliope our muse!
as we are gathered here to sing the words
of this our epic tale  of one such trip
begun with good intent, but out of which
rich torrents of calamity sprang forth,
as from a sack with fruit too ripe to hold.

CANTO II

The lineage of Archibald Jenkins – Enjoying a Burgomeister – Patch radius strategies – Descending to the rump – A pair of spikes

To walk an eiderdown of spotted rump
with starry night all hovering above
came early to rise one Archibald Jenkins –
the son of Alastair son of Aster,
who was sired by Alfacadabras before him –
a citizen of Earth, and sometime holder
of poker hands fair to middling of worth,
who was dreaming of holidays to come.
Of all the injections heíd ever worked
this was to be his last, quite routine,
with the usual cleanup at the end;
and then farewell to their bovine host –
no underlings, hence, to ferret about,
no invoice stacks to riffle and stamp,
no work lists, lorries, radios to check,
and an end of all those budgets to sign
with those damned low-gravity pens.
Almost he could imagine home again,
his fingers wrapped round a Burgomeister,
so tall and full of froth, a balm for common men
but also for the great; his feet propped high
against a window’s wetted pane.
Then he would gaze upon fields, blissfully free
of cows and men; just the daffodilís smell,
the dawnís sweet breath of grass and thunder,
such were the pleasures to soon be his.

Now Jenkins ran the rump’s injection team,
his charge the patch radius, to lave and shear
its bristling hairs before the needle flew.
Prevailing wisdom had called for a space
a hundred foot wide, as well as could berth
some plenteous stack of ten-odd floors
that gently had toppled on its side,
but Jenkins, subjected to accounts, and time,
preferred to make it larger when he could.
Just a circle of pale and pink, no more,
though it oft-turned the guts of lesser folk,
the way it stared right into them.
No time to lose, a new ship had arrived,
and all the papers were spreading the news 
The Daily Charade, The Calcutta Times,
and a line in Komsomolskaya Pravda, too.
Even The Cowís Opinion ran a page,
so rash as to print in twenty point bold
the names of every passenger aboard.
Excited readers wanted much to know
what size the portholes had in all the rooms,
how soft and fine the water-filled beds,
and as for tea, was it brewed as they said
by automatic beverage machines?
Aside from all these questions, rumors flew,
of whose wife or pet would accompany whom,
and where the night promenades would be.
But those who were members of Jenkins’ crew
and even the needleworks team, up top,
they knew far better than to heed such mills
of flimsy gossip and propped up guff;
trips within the cow’s interior
were, if nothing else, a dangerous business,
made possible only by bilious guides
well-seasoned in lymph, and blood-swollen tides.

The dawn was coming fast upon the beast
as Jenkins  with a head of hair buzzed gray
and uniform to match, his shirt pocket stitched
with red-lettered pockets informing his name,
stepped into the elevator cage.
Some sixty full fathoms it ran
to join the station and its sprouting hubs
with the frosted hillocks of the beast.
He scans the downs with a vigilant eye,
all its wisps and nacreous cattail clumps,
with thoughts on gathering his crew, and his wits,
though unaware still, of assaults soon to come
from a dubious scoundrel indeed.

A lorry bumbles by, and signs of life
emerge from the brightening needleworks.
It looms a bulbous onion in the night,
graceful in its symmetry but for a pair
of aerotubes that go streaking out the side.
Like filaments partitioning the sky,
side by side, they race above the plain,
in haste to join the bulb out by the rump,
with the station and the welcoming docks
that sprout closer to the neck, and from whence
the newly minted passengers arrive.
Extruding from the bulb’s base comes the shaft
of the terrible needle, ramrod straight,
a lance as unwieldable as any
Giant had ever cast, beyond even
the thews of Ares in his prime, though well
he would rejoice to see it pierce
the tender spot where Septimus Mons
descends to converge with Upsilon Prime 
a pair of spikes that cannot be scaled,
though crews have tried, with miles of fastened rope,
and hopes not to hazard looks down below
where white tumbleweeds went frolicking by.

Nathan D. Jerpe is a recovering software engineer with a background in computational electromagnetics from Clemson University. He runs Roguelikefiction: a small press which explores experimental forms of text, narrative, and the spaces where video games and fiction intersect. In 2008 he released Legerdemain: a surreal computer role-playing game featuring a world drawn entirely with Unicode glyphs. He is currently at work translating volumes of weird epic poetry.

%d bloggers like this: