I spoke gently and quietly as my eyes gazed towards the collage of people transcending down the avenue. He didn’t understand… of course he never understood though.. we always ended up in silence staring into the swarm of people depicting apart there lifes’ because we had not much of one.
My life is a tattered collage of embarrassing events, held together tenuously by fraying red threat. After years and years of trying to simply throw it away or change it so it becomes slightly more appealing, I’ve simply given up. I accept my fate.
He watched as the rain fall, behind the window panes as he tried hard not to weep. He had expected the streets to be crowded but it turned out to be more deserted than usual.
a splendid miasma of words and colours and thoughts. mosaic, that’s what I mean. squares of everything and a mind like the rest. what will we find in this new world of images? who can ever really tell whats there?
There before me stood a collage of that once was, like a picture of my heartache and pain on display for all the world to see. I stand there wondering how this happened, how did someone see right into my soul. How did this happen I wonder staring at my dirty laundering hanging for all to see
This collage of my life represents a life full of wonder, happiness, wisdom and courageous moments. I like to look back on my life and see it as a movie, playing in the back of my head on replay. First steps, first sips, falls, love, hurt, freedom.
A collage is such a beautiful way to show and tell a story of ones life. My grandma used to make them all the time, before she passed away. I miss her dearly – but I will always have her collages.
When I was younger, I used to make collages. They were my way of picturing what I wanted my world to look like. All the beautiful people and things from magazines made me think that was what the key to my happiness would be. But when you have everything, why does it feel you have nothing? I blame the collage!
I am nothing. The walls are blank. I am nothing. He hands me the glue. I am nothing. I stare out into the world. I am nothing. “Just go over the back of it like this” he demonstrates, “And be sure to smooth all of the air pockets when you push it onto the wall” and he smiles. They don’t do that topside where I’m from. Don’t make eye contact and trace each others facial features. You don’t smile and you sure as hell don’t decorate the walls of whatever cave you happen to be staying in. We press the pictures onto the wall of a bedroom meant for someone with a heart like his. But I am no one. And this feels like nothing.
Do you really think people see their lives flash by when they die? A collage of images. I doubt it. I don’t know all I know is death is inevitable and if you don’t stop worrying about it it will kill you.
a collage is a group or jumble of images that represent an idea, a place, a memory, or something that happened. it can reresent anything, really. a feeling, a thought, or just some pretty pictures. its about what the artist wants
Collage is a board or whatever full of random pictures of anything, maybe it has a theme, maybe it has nothing. You can arrange it in anyway you wish and decorate it with anything. the collage is yours. Yours to do anything with. Making a collage is a great experience for everyone.
The snip of paper and the snaps of life, cropped and pasted. I hope I have them forever, I know you will never be. The collage a lie from the past helps me remember in the future. Dusted over the years as I forget time ever wasted.
a collage is an amalgamation of a number of pictures onto one sheet. it signifies putting together all your ideas, memories together. it is a beautiful way to portray all your aspects of life woven together in a form of a collage.
When I see the collage of modern meets ancient and tradition meets novice. When red, yellow, blue, and gold come together. When all makes sense… I think of America, and that’s ok.
My life as a collage would be an interesting work indeed. Pieces of pictures slapped into place, some with great care and tenderness, others merely tossed on in an attempt to fill the space.
What a great variety they would be, from the leopard print panties with the black lace trim, standing in front of a mirror practicing hair flips and rolling hips, to the hours spent on calloused knees begging to intercede with the pain of those in need. Pink lips, wine sips, African rain, candy canes, green eyes, pumpkin pies, they would all find their way onto my collage, with a touch of the divine spark to weave it all together in a masterful array of color and beauty and life.
The pieces, they come together in odd ways. Is realizing the pieces fit, is that growing up? Because they’ve been there from the beginning if they’re there now, but they fit together in this odd collage, this beautiful collage that I can’t stop staring at, that seems so right, now, living in this way, through this image, but the only way to fit it together took seventeen years and many deep breaths in and long sighs out. Fragments. I am genderqueer, I am omnisexual, I self-harm, I am aromantic, I am spiritual, I am a writer, and I am the fragments of the world combined in a beautiful, abstract form, meticulously pieced together from scraps and fields of blank words and lackluster pictures to become… to become me.
I am a perfect masterpiece of a fine artist. And this, perhaps, is why I believe.
The old movie ticket stubs, restaurant fortune cookie slips, and slivery cards from the bouquets of flowers he’d given her had formed an impressive, if depressing collage to catalog their relationship.
“You are a true romantic,” proclaimed one of the old Panda Express fortunes from a fast-food dinner date. She cupped it in the palm of her hand, then tossed it into the growing blue and orange flames, where it floated gently to the top of that fateful sonogram as flames flirted with the glossy edges.
your
crumpled, torn up truths
miserable morsels of
putrid promises,
submerged shit
flimsily forced together with fake tears
lie clustered,
a collage of corroding carnage
an amalgamation
of shit
a jetsam
on my shores.
collage phosphorous dreamscape, emerald cloud cover throwing shadows of lavender on the suburbs, a squeaky-wheeled trike serpentine in the field behind the school, a chill in the air as we shiver together, thinking of the future.
your
crumpled, torn up truths
miserable morsels of
putrid promises,
submerged shit
flimsily forced together with fake tears
lies clustered,
a collage of corroding carnage
an amalgamation
of shit
a jetsam
on my shores.
I had to make a collage for school. I remember, I was only in second grade I made one for the first time, when my mom checked edline and told me I had to make one. I had no idea what it was, but I did it anyway. Mom helped me cut out pics from magazines and newspapers so I could glue them onto my paper. I was the first one in my class to turn it in because nobodoy else had checked edline that night and I was the only one who did. Everyone was behind on it in the end and it was pretty cool.
Something was missing. I couldn’t quite pin it down, but there was definitely something missing. I just couldn’t pin it down… I scanned the vast array of photos that I’d used to line the poster. Messages like ‘Don’t Forget to Write’, ‘We’ll Miss You!’, and ‘Never Say Die!’ were blocked out in colorful text at the center, with wonderful stamp-bordered photos of all our friends. There was Iza and Barty and Dave. I made sure that Tamy and Trevor were there, even though they weren’t really part of our group. There was Thomas and Dale and Stephanie, partying as usual. Did I leave out Claudia? No. No she was right there, glaring over her book. What was missing? Someone was…
At the first chords of the song, a collage of memories spread through Emma’s mind like a deck of cards scattered on a table. Everything she knew before The Fading came back for just a moment as those notes shivered through the air. And then, a moment later, when the woman next to her changed the radio channel, those pictures in her mind all disappeared. Emma reached for them with the tendrils of her consciousness, but it was so much work, and she was far too tired…
The wrinkles in her hands formed such curious streams, straining and grasping like grass roots anchoring a plant to life.
Photos of faces, moments, places, scents, beauty, wonder spread across the pages. A scrapbook layout laced with oddities found at a flea market and bits of old dresses, the charm off a former key chain, a carefully pressed flower sealed in plastic sheets. Lacing them all together with glue and string, fastening them to a background to enclose under glass and frame. A window into something many will find amusing, but only a few will know the true meaning of these moments trapped in a collage of feelings and memories.
She’s locked herself in her room once again. I can hear her screaming as she rips something off the wall. Probably the collage that she made with him last summer. I let her be. She won’t hurt anyone, although I feel bad for that poster she just tore to shreds.
Stories sewn together in an old notebook. Some of them are real. Others are fictional. Even more are a hybrid of the two. The child born of reality and fairytales. Some stories are well-written, and others have been written out in choppy handwriting. It’s a collage of sorts – a portal into the writer’s strange mind.
The pictures were scattered on the glass coffee table, a collage of memories laid out before the elderly woman. She peered through her spectacles as she tried to sort the events in chronological order, although they themselves were muddled pile in her brain.
Tessa stared at the wall in front of her. Where there had once been nothing, there was now a collage of photographs. Photos of William. Looking at them now, every memory, every thought, every emotion she had tried so hard to push away since his death over 70 years ago, came rushing back.
collage
it seems like what was linear has become a collage
every day normal things have a personality different than I remember
Different from the sense it used to make
and now comes in soundbites and bits
Memories pasted together and hung up on the wall for the world to see. (and by world, I mean those who come through this room. So not the world at all.) It’s my way of pretending that I’ve had a happy life.
the collage she created depicted a very unusual scene not of a love story that tina had intented but a barren landscape of greys and blacks with shadows and a few hints of sunshine
Faces, colour. words. I sound my barbaric YAWP over the rooftops of the world, Walt Whitman. Tigers, pink lipstick, paper and glue. flowers, music. but not sounds. Only visuals.
A collage of you and me we’re meant to be walking free in harmony one fine day we’ll fly away don’t you know the bronx wasnt built in a day hey hey hey papapapapamm love true friendship together forever
when you make a collage
you build
one thing
on top of another
there is structure yes
but creativity isn’t limited
it’s not monogamy
but a tango with multiple partners
collages are more than one but multiple in one
I spoke gently and quietly as my eyes gazed towards the collage of people transcending down the avenue. He didn’t understand… of course he never understood though.. we always ended up in silence staring into the swarm of people depicting apart there lifes’ because we had not much of one.
My life is a tattered collage of embarrassing events, held together tenuously by fraying red threat. After years and years of trying to simply throw it away or change it so it becomes slightly more appealing, I’ve simply given up. I accept my fate.
He watched as the rain fall, behind the window panes as he tried hard not to weep. He had expected the streets to be crowded but it turned out to be more deserted than usual.
a splendid miasma of words and colours and thoughts. mosaic, that’s what I mean. squares of everything and a mind like the rest. what will we find in this new world of images? who can ever really tell whats there?
hi
i,m akashjain and deepakjain and manju Jain
There before me stood a collage of that once was, like a picture of my heartache and pain on display for all the world to see. I stand there wondering how this happened, how did someone see right into my soul. How did this happen I wonder staring at my dirty laundering hanging for all to see
This collage of my life represents a life full of wonder, happiness, wisdom and courageous moments. I like to look back on my life and see it as a movie, playing in the back of my head on replay. First steps, first sips, falls, love, hurt, freedom.
A collage is such a beautiful way to show and tell a story of ones life. My grandma used to make them all the time, before she passed away. I miss her dearly – but I will always have her collages.
When I was younger, I used to make collages. They were my way of picturing what I wanted my world to look like. All the beautiful people and things from magazines made me think that was what the key to my happiness would be. But when you have everything, why does it feel you have nothing? I blame the collage!
I am nothing. The walls are blank. I am nothing. He hands me the glue. I am nothing. I stare out into the world. I am nothing. “Just go over the back of it like this” he demonstrates, “And be sure to smooth all of the air pockets when you push it onto the wall” and he smiles. They don’t do that topside where I’m from. Don’t make eye contact and trace each others facial features. You don’t smile and you sure as hell don’t decorate the walls of whatever cave you happen to be staying in. We press the pictures onto the wall of a bedroom meant for someone with a heart like his. But I am no one. And this feels like nothing.
Do you really think people see their lives flash by when they die? A collage of images. I doubt it. I don’t know all I know is death is inevitable and if you don’t stop worrying about it it will kill you.
a collage is a group or jumble of images that represent an idea, a place, a memory, or something that happened. it can reresent anything, really. a feeling, a thought, or just some pretty pictures. its about what the artist wants
Collage is a board or whatever full of random pictures of anything, maybe it has a theme, maybe it has nothing. You can arrange it in anyway you wish and decorate it with anything. the collage is yours. Yours to do anything with. Making a collage is a great experience for everyone.
The snip of paper and the snaps of life, cropped and pasted. I hope I have them forever, I know you will never be. The collage a lie from the past helps me remember in the future. Dusted over the years as I forget time ever wasted.
a collage is an amalgamation of a number of pictures onto one sheet. it signifies putting together all your ideas, memories together. it is a beautiful way to portray all your aspects of life woven together in a form of a collage.
When I see the collage of modern meets ancient and tradition meets novice. When red, yellow, blue, and gold come together. When all makes sense… I think of America, and that’s ok.
My life as a collage would be an interesting work indeed. Pieces of pictures slapped into place, some with great care and tenderness, others merely tossed on in an attempt to fill the space.
What a great variety they would be, from the leopard print panties with the black lace trim, standing in front of a mirror practicing hair flips and rolling hips, to the hours spent on calloused knees begging to intercede with the pain of those in need. Pink lips, wine sips, African rain, candy canes, green eyes, pumpkin pies, they would all find their way onto my collage, with a touch of the divine spark to weave it all together in a masterful array of color and beauty and life.
The pieces, they come together in odd ways. Is realizing the pieces fit, is that growing up? Because they’ve been there from the beginning if they’re there now, but they fit together in this odd collage, this beautiful collage that I can’t stop staring at, that seems so right, now, living in this way, through this image, but the only way to fit it together took seventeen years and many deep breaths in and long sighs out. Fragments. I am genderqueer, I am omnisexual, I self-harm, I am aromantic, I am spiritual, I am a writer, and I am the fragments of the world combined in a beautiful, abstract form, meticulously pieced together from scraps and fields of blank words and lackluster pictures to become… to become me.
I am a perfect masterpiece of a fine artist. And this, perhaps, is why I believe.
It’s an easy to make art form, but also kind of sinister. Glue and tragedies all mushed together to morph into art and beautifulness.
The old movie ticket stubs, restaurant fortune cookie slips, and slivery cards from the bouquets of flowers he’d given her had formed an impressive, if depressing collage to catalog their relationship.
“You are a true romantic,” proclaimed one of the old Panda Express fortunes from a fast-food dinner date. She cupped it in the palm of her hand, then tossed it into the growing blue and orange flames, where it floated gently to the top of that fateful sonogram as flames flirted with the glossy edges.
your
crumpled, torn up truths
miserable morsels of
putrid promises,
submerged shit
flimsily forced together with fake tears
lie clustered,
a collage of corroding carnage
an amalgamation
of shit
a jetsam
on my shores.
collage phosphorous dreamscape, emerald cloud cover throwing shadows of lavender on the suburbs, a squeaky-wheeled trike serpentine in the field behind the school, a chill in the air as we shiver together, thinking of the future.
your
crumpled, torn up truths
miserable morsels of
putrid promises,
submerged shit
flimsily forced together with fake tears
lies clustered,
a collage of corroding carnage
an amalgamation
of shit
a jetsam
on my shores.
I had to make a collage for school. I remember, I was only in second grade I made one for the first time, when my mom checked edline and told me I had to make one. I had no idea what it was, but I did it anyway. Mom helped me cut out pics from magazines and newspapers so I could glue them onto my paper. I was the first one in my class to turn it in because nobodoy else had checked edline that night and I was the only one who did. Everyone was behind on it in the end and it was pretty cool.
Something was missing. I couldn’t quite pin it down, but there was definitely something missing. I just couldn’t pin it down… I scanned the vast array of photos that I’d used to line the poster. Messages like ‘Don’t Forget to Write’, ‘We’ll Miss You!’, and ‘Never Say Die!’ were blocked out in colorful text at the center, with wonderful stamp-bordered photos of all our friends. There was Iza and Barty and Dave. I made sure that Tamy and Trevor were there, even though they weren’t really part of our group. There was Thomas and Dale and Stephanie, partying as usual. Did I leave out Claudia? No. No she was right there, glaring over her book. What was missing? Someone was…
oh
Right…
Me.
At the first chords of the song, a collage of memories spread through Emma’s mind like a deck of cards scattered on a table. Everything she knew before The Fading came back for just a moment as those notes shivered through the air. And then, a moment later, when the woman next to her changed the radio channel, those pictures in her mind all disappeared. Emma reached for them with the tendrils of her consciousness, but it was so much work, and she was far too tired…
The wrinkles in her hands formed such curious streams, straining and grasping like grass roots anchoring a plant to life.
Photos of faces, moments, places, scents, beauty, wonder spread across the pages. A scrapbook layout laced with oddities found at a flea market and bits of old dresses, the charm off a former key chain, a carefully pressed flower sealed in plastic sheets. Lacing them all together with glue and string, fastening them to a background to enclose under glass and frame. A window into something many will find amusing, but only a few will know the true meaning of these moments trapped in a collage of feelings and memories.
The leaves that coated the forest floor were like a collage of colors, all overlapping and mixing their colors together to form a big quilt of sorts.
pictures friends memories frame remember trips photos friends family love happy old times
She’s locked herself in her room once again. I can hear her screaming as she rips something off the wall. Probably the collage that she made with him last summer. I let her be. She won’t hurt anyone, although I feel bad for that poster she just tore to shreds.
Stories sewn together in an old notebook. Some of them are real. Others are fictional. Even more are a hybrid of the two. The child born of reality and fairytales. Some stories are well-written, and others have been written out in choppy handwriting. It’s a collage of sorts – a portal into the writer’s strange mind.
A group of randomness
has no meaning
seems disjointed
filled with memory
Loving the past
a memoir of the past
ever going to last
will always live on
as a work of art.
The pictures were scattered on the glass coffee table, a collage of memories laid out before the elderly woman. She peered through her spectacles as she tried to sort the events in chronological order, although they themselves were muddled pile in her brain.
Tessa stared at the wall in front of her. Where there had once been nothing, there was now a collage of photographs. Photos of William. Looking at them now, every memory, every thought, every emotion she had tried so hard to push away since his death over 70 years ago, came rushing back.
collage
it seems like what was linear has become a collage
every day normal things have a personality different than I remember
Different from the sense it used to make
and now comes in soundbites and bits
Memories pasted together and hung up on the wall for the world to see. (and by world, I mean those who come through this room. So not the world at all.) It’s my way of pretending that I’ve had a happy life.
the collage she created depicted a very unusual scene not of a love story that tina had intented but a barren landscape of greys and blacks with shadows and a few hints of sunshine
Faces, colour. words. I sound my barbaric YAWP over the rooftops of the world, Walt Whitman. Tigers, pink lipstick, paper and glue. flowers, music. but not sounds. Only visuals.
A collage of you and me we’re meant to be walking free in harmony one fine day we’ll fly away don’t you know the bronx wasnt built in a day hey hey hey papapapapamm love true friendship together forever
when you make a collage
you build
one thing
on top of another
there is structure yes
but creativity isn’t limited
it’s not monogamy
but a tango with multiple partners
collages are more than one but multiple in one