I visited an art gallery last weekend. I was passnig by the street and I saw from the outside very nice paintings so i Decided to go in. The pictures were all landscapes. Some were really colourful, and others were quite dull, but they were so realistic that they looked like pictures
artwork of strung beads
and chipped glass
lines your walls.
discarded items
others could not
see the beauty of.
they are your hands
and eyes of the
world. so astonishing,
insignificant.
Curves of lines, the soft colours that blend, sweaty skin and halted breaths. All of it reminds them of each other. It doesn’t mean that they can’t stop, per say, but they think that the way that they look at each other is a work of art; and every time they do so, it’s filed away in their mind, another piece of a huge collection.
there is a lot of definations of gallery. one is photo gallery, one is aristocrist gallery, where my mam’ house is located.
she used this words to explain me about her house, and i said i will come she say ok and ask me to return the notes where i will collect them.
Each day is a piece in your gallery of life. Make it beautiful, make it meaningful. Some will be awed. Some will hate it. and Some will visit it again. It’s your gallery. you’re the curator.
Art gallery is my first thought.
Which makes me think of a ship galley.
Which makes me think of pirates.
Which makes me go back to gallery and think about pirate paintings.
I guess I have pirates on the mind.
Gallery of pictures
If names
Of memories
Galleries to observe
To see
But do you feel
Experience
Galleries of the soul
Do they hold you
Or do you let the images flow freely through you like water
It was stunning…this gallery. The pictures were quite grotesque, don’t get me wrong. the lines, the bodies and the figures. But it shocked and awed. The gaping holes that it demonstrated in the soles of those within it’s frames. The reminders of your own gaping wholes. A reflection…but a hope. That if these monstrous figures could be so stunning in their frames…well, you yourself could be beautiful with your own imperfections as well.
the photo was like nothing i had ever seen, abstract but making perfect sense… my true view of art had come together in this piece. it had to be mine… but wasn’t for sale, what was i to do? steal it? no that would be crazy i couldnt go through with such an idea could i?
Every day at 11.45am he came here, to the gallery. He walked up the flight of stairs and sat on the same bench. He lost himself in her eyes, her long chestnut locks and creamy breasts. Such a beauty. A sensual wickedness in her expression that weakened his trembling knees. He adored her, dreamed of her, wanted her. The girl in the painting.
It’s a gallery of movements – graceful, poised, and beautiful. She moves like a swan in those dusty floorboards and dim lights. She’s rehearsing dances in the dark because she loves being in the shadow’s limelight. Choreography is her rhythm, her body is her canvass, and she’s her own painter.
i like to saunter around a gallery, or a museum. in fact what they exhibit doesn’t really matter…what i’m looking for is the feel of the space that’s a separate compartment from everyday life.
they went into the gallery anticipating another hum drum opening – it opened their eyes to another world. and millions of possibilities the only question – where to next?
i want to have my paintings in the gallery and i want to have my own gallery where i will also serve food I’ll cook for guests. i love going to galleries and the time you spent there appreciating art and the conversations you start there.
Gallery is a place where people go to see pictures, art and photos anything to do with art work.
Art Gallerys are fun place to visit and is always full of new and old art works.
rows and rows of things of beautiful things you do not really understand
except for one
he was standing there
staring at what hung there
he looked sideways
and the moment your eyes met
masterpiece
rows and rows of things you do not understand
except for one
he was standing there
staring at what hung there
he looked sideways
and the moments your eyes met
masterpiece
we were all on display and glowing in the florescent light of the room. we were boring things, but people stopped to look at us any way. it was nice to be noticed for once.
I am reminded of movies and art. Usually in movies there is some kind of gallery where there is art hanging. Usually it is things such as pictures and paintings and sculptures. I think about things like really abstract or the complete opposite like people.
A place of secrets. old man sitting on a bench. Lonely woman lost in Monet’s lillies, wishing she was on the bridge about to jump into the lake of blue purple streaks dashing light playing across stretched canvas, it’s not real, but still we all dream of living in the frame.
(zombies ho!) They stood before her like some macabre shooting gallery, cold eyes and cold faces twisting slowly to look at her. Her handgun and its full clip felt unusually heavy in her hands, and she couldn’t bring herself to raise it above hip level. She knew it was for the best, it was necessary, it was either her or them, but staring into their predatory eyes, she couldn’t help the cold fist of guilt that clamped around her heart. There was still sentience in those dead eyes, still somewhere a soul trapped in an earthly bond that deserved much better than this. One of them turned fully to her, its mouth falling slack to emit a hollow and hungry howl, a moan that shot straight to her soul and completely unlike anything she’d ever heard before. She took a breath and raised her pistol, took sight of the first of these damned beings, lined up against the wall like some macabre shooting gallery. Under her breath she mumbled something resembling a word of prayer, for forgiveness or pity or simply a curse on the entire situation, some empty and meaningless word spat out to try and make sense of things, to make her feel better. And then she fired at the skull of the first, painting the wall behind it with monochromatic impressionist art, and in the bright white light of the muzzle flash, the world was cleansed and reborn. She recognized somewhere in the back of her mind, as those grey fleshy hands reached for her and stumbled toward her on atrophying muscles and she fired and fired and fired, that nothing would ever be the same in the world again. The world she knew was six— seven— eight bullets away from the world of now, had been reborn and reworked and reformed with every sharp report of the gun and every bright white flash from the muzzle, with every poor unfortunate soul with a bullet through its brain that lay at the foot of the shooting gallery wall now exhibiting its newest art show.
I walk out into the lights, people staring and judging is all that meet me. I saunter down, remembering what it first felt like to be out here, on display. This catwalk is a gallery of empty girls, hoping for a chance to become more.
They stood before her like some macabre shooting gallery, cold eyes and cold faces twisting slowly to look at her. Her handgun and its full clip felt unusually heavy in her hands, and she couldn’t bring herself to raise it above hip level. She knew it was for the best, it was necessary, it was eitehr
the woman missed painting. galleries like this reminded her of the wonderful works of art she used to create. she longed to feel the canvas under her brush, to lose herself in her work, and finally, finally be free. she missed knowing everything would be ok when she was connected to the art. it cleansed her soul.
Gallery of faces in my mind..walking down the hall I see the refelction in there eyes Wondering if they still see mine some fill me with pain some with love all i wonder whats to come
I visited an art gallery last weekend. I was passnig by the street and I saw from the outside very nice paintings so i Decided to go in. The pictures were all landscapes. Some were really colourful, and others were quite dull, but they were so realistic that they looked like pictures
artwork of strung beads
and chipped glass
lines your walls.
discarded items
others could not
see the beauty of.
they are your hands
and eyes of the
world. so astonishing,
insignificant.
There were more paintings in there than could ever be imagined.
One for every time she was terrified, but lived anyhow.
Curves of lines, the soft colours that blend, sweaty skin and halted breaths. All of it reminds them of each other. It doesn’t mean that they can’t stop, per say, but they think that the way that they look at each other is a work of art; and every time they do so, it’s filed away in their mind, another piece of a huge collection.
there is a lot of definations of gallery. one is photo gallery, one is aristocrist gallery, where my mam’ house is located.
she used this words to explain me about her house, and i said i will come she say ok and ask me to return the notes where i will collect them.
the art gallery was full with beautiful paintings.(:
The art gallery was full of beautiful paintings.
A gallary is like a art room such as an art gallary.
Susan and rich walked through the gallery looking for a perfect place to hide the painting
lets go to the movie gallery!!!!!the picture gallery haS ALOT OF PICTURES.The movie galery also has alot of movies.
in paris there is a famous gallery that holds the great painting mona leasa.
The art gallery just opened down the street! I’m so exited I can hardly wait to go!!
Each day is a piece in your gallery of life. Make it beautiful, make it meaningful. Some will be awed. Some will hate it. and Some will visit it again. It’s your gallery. you’re the curator.
a hall of photos. In this class we make plenty of pictures, and they could go in a gallery.
Art gallery is my first thought.
Which makes me think of a ship galley.
Which makes me think of pirates.
Which makes me go back to gallery and think about pirate paintings.
I guess I have pirates on the mind.
Gallery of pictures
If names
Of memories
Galleries to observe
To see
But do you feel
Experience
Galleries of the soul
Do they hold you
Or do you let the images flow freely through you like water
It was stunning…this gallery. The pictures were quite grotesque, don’t get me wrong. the lines, the bodies and the figures. But it shocked and awed. The gaping holes that it demonstrated in the soles of those within it’s frames. The reminders of your own gaping wholes. A reflection…but a hope. That if these monstrous figures could be so stunning in their frames…well, you yourself could be beautiful with your own imperfections as well.
art
sculptures
people
crowds……not really
dont eat
dont bring a drink in
the photo was like nothing i had ever seen, abstract but making perfect sense… my true view of art had come together in this piece. it had to be mine… but wasn’t for sale, what was i to do? steal it? no that would be crazy i couldnt go through with such an idea could i?
Looking at everything with beauty. Everything that makes me laugh, cry, smile.
Memories scattered to the four corners of a picture.
Every day at 11.45am he came here, to the gallery. He walked up the flight of stairs and sat on the same bench. He lost himself in her eyes, her long chestnut locks and creamy breasts. Such a beauty. A sensual wickedness in her expression that weakened his trembling knees. He adored her, dreamed of her, wanted her. The girl in the painting.
It’s a gallery of movements – graceful, poised, and beautiful. She moves like a swan in those dusty floorboards and dim lights. She’s rehearsing dances in the dark because she loves being in the shadow’s limelight. Choreography is her rhythm, her body is her canvass, and she’s her own painter.
i like to saunter around a gallery, or a museum. in fact what they exhibit doesn’t really matter…what i’m looking for is the feel of the space that’s a separate compartment from everyday life.
they went into the gallery anticipating another hum drum opening – it opened their eyes to another world. and millions of possibilities the only question – where to next?
i want to have my paintings in the gallery and i want to have my own gallery where i will also serve food I’ll cook for guests. i love going to galleries and the time you spent there appreciating art and the conversations you start there.
Gallery is a place where people go to see pictures, art and photos anything to do with art work.
Art Gallerys are fun place to visit and is always full of new and old art works.
In my mind is a lair that holds a wide span gallery of artworks that only entice want and need.
rows and rows of things of beautiful things you do not really understand
except for one
he was standing there
staring at what hung there
he looked sideways
and the moment your eyes met
masterpiece
rows and rows of things you do not understand
except for one
he was standing there
staring at what hung there
he looked sideways
and the moments your eyes met
masterpiece
we were all on display and glowing in the florescent light of the room. we were boring things, but people stopped to look at us any way. it was nice to be noticed for once.
a place where anything becomes art. show off you thoughts and ideas for all to see. go there to explore and find new ideas.
If I could pick a gallery in which to spend most of my time it would be that of the peanut variety.
I am reminded of movies and art. Usually in movies there is some kind of gallery where there is art hanging. Usually it is things such as pictures and paintings and sculptures. I think about things like really abstract or the complete opposite like people.
A place of secrets. old man sitting on a bench. Lonely woman lost in Monet’s lillies, wishing she was on the bridge about to jump into the lake of blue purple streaks dashing light playing across stretched canvas, it’s not real, but still we all dream of living in the frame.
(zombies ho!) They stood before her like some macabre shooting gallery, cold eyes and cold faces twisting slowly to look at her. Her handgun and its full clip felt unusually heavy in her hands, and she couldn’t bring herself to raise it above hip level. She knew it was for the best, it was necessary, it was either her or them, but staring into their predatory eyes, she couldn’t help the cold fist of guilt that clamped around her heart. There was still sentience in those dead eyes, still somewhere a soul trapped in an earthly bond that deserved much better than this. One of them turned fully to her, its mouth falling slack to emit a hollow and hungry howl, a moan that shot straight to her soul and completely unlike anything she’d ever heard before. She took a breath and raised her pistol, took sight of the first of these damned beings, lined up against the wall like some macabre shooting gallery. Under her breath she mumbled something resembling a word of prayer, for forgiveness or pity or simply a curse on the entire situation, some empty and meaningless word spat out to try and make sense of things, to make her feel better. And then she fired at the skull of the first, painting the wall behind it with monochromatic impressionist art, and in the bright white light of the muzzle flash, the world was cleansed and reborn. She recognized somewhere in the back of her mind, as those grey fleshy hands reached for her and stumbled toward her on atrophying muscles and she fired and fired and fired, that nothing would ever be the same in the world again. The world she knew was six— seven— eight bullets away from the world of now, had been reborn and reworked and reformed with every sharp report of the gun and every bright white flash from the muzzle, with every poor unfortunate soul with a bullet through its brain that lay at the foot of the shooting gallery wall now exhibiting its newest art show.
I walk out into the lights, people staring and judging is all that meet me. I saunter down, remembering what it first felt like to be out here, on display. This catwalk is a gallery of empty girls, hoping for a chance to become more.
They stood before her like some macabre shooting gallery, cold eyes and cold faces twisting slowly to look at her. Her handgun and its full clip felt unusually heavy in her hands, and she couldn’t bring herself to raise it above hip level. She knew it was for the best, it was necessary, it was eitehr
This place is loud. All the screaming paintings and the silent statues. I leave knowing “The Night at the Museum” is real.
the woman missed painting. galleries like this reminded her of the wonderful works of art she used to create. she longed to feel the canvas under her brush, to lose herself in her work, and finally, finally be free. she missed knowing everything would be ok when she was connected to the art. it cleansed her soul.
Gallery of faces in my mind..walking down the hall I see the refelction in there eyes Wondering if they still see mine some fill me with pain some with love all i wonder whats to come