Just another picture in your gallery, Is that it? Well one piece doesn’t quite fill it, and satisfy so quickly, a new piece must be added to the collection. Before you know tons of pretty bobble headed pieces are hanging in your gallery. One day while you are old and greay, you’ll look back and see the most beautiful painting you’ve ever seen. You missed it. Someone else has found it. Sucks right man? Eat shit.
I dont know what to write, but I want to write a letter for you.
Nataraj
Cole looked left, slyly, at Aurora’s face, open in wonder at the pictures and paintings in the gallery. Grabbing her hand, he leaned into her, whispering with all the corniness of an Iowa agricultural center, “nothing here matches your beauty.”
Cole looked left, slyly, at Aurora’s face, open in wonder at the pictures and paintings in the gallery. Grabbing her hand, he leaned into her, whispering with all the corniness of an Iowa agricultural center, “nothing here matches your beauty”
when i look into your eyes, that’s when the doors open to your gallery. an exhibition filled with lingering memories, scraping their way out to the surface. displays of your emotions on the canvas of your soul – the anger, the pain, the regret – this is what I will never forget.
lots of pictures hanging up and people walking around and looking at them. many of them are photographs and others are paintings that people have made to display and possibly have sold. the walls are white and everyone is dressed nicely and carrying a cocktail or a champagne glass. the curator is walking around greeting people while the artists stand by their pieces and mingle trying to get people to buy one. this is just lik ethe scen
abs
A collection of pictures standing, leaning, listing, slowly falling and descending down the blank wall with its chipping paint and bleached, colorless wallpaper and dust, dust, dust everywhere. It was a gallery of broken hearts and forgotten memories. My dreams.
view paintings
appreciate art
sculpture
astonished by colors
abstract
wander at beauty
bask in creativity
classic
modern
postmodern
see
date
view
appreciate
forever
its where you go to get inspired
noelle r
The art gallery down the street remains the last building left untouched. Everything else is gone. The parks, the trees, the stone walls and fences surrounding the homes and apartments. it’s all gone.
His face is a playbook of strange expressions. He has a whole gallery of them neatly tucked away under the skin, using them as they seem fit. It’s odd how everything he does seems so calculated, so turned over in his head. He’s made jabs at ‘normal people’ on more than several occasions for our brains being so ‘silly’, ‘bland’ and ‘blank’, but sometimes, I’m glad for it. His is such a frenzy of oncoming thoughts, like a tornado coming in and clobbering them around. I would get an aneurysm from having so much tussling around together in my skull, so in a way, I admire him for being able to even understand the mess.
Sugg
i went to a gallery to see a painting but the painting looked at me funny so i pushed it off the wall and it began to bounced, bounced al around the room knocking into walls and people and knocking other paintings off the walls and sculptures to the ground before it waltzed out the door
Mary
A gallery of unfinished masterpieces in my wardrobe are the only reminders I have left of my failed attempts.
There was pages and pages of sheet music (that I had rehearsed endlessly to have perfect); each holding the scribbles and corrections he and I had made for our duets. I could still remember every word and note (“Amore purduto… piango, piango, piango…”).
The ripped remnants of my first condom that I ever saw (and used). Perhaps this is the reason I kept his face blurry and shadowed in the back of my mind. There are pictures too somewhere that also prove his existence, but they’re lost in the sea of images, I’m sure, on my sisters Cannon.
And then there was the grey sweater, with tiny blue horizontal stripes. That one’s at the back, pushed behind all the other canvases of maybe mistakes and impossible possibles. It still smelled like the lake, like the sand between my toes, and the s’mores on my tongue. Like that night, like those many nights.
But I suppose I ruined that too. It sits with all the others, crowded in the wardrobe. And I, out here, alone.
They were wandering around what appeared to be a perfectly harmless gallery. The pair of them knew otherwise though. This was where a bomb was goin to be plante in five minutes but the two o them had to find a man name radsome and tell him where it was do that no one died. Also because this was one of the doctors fixed points and he knew it.
The bright blue gallery on the south side of town was known for a lone visitor. He wore a hat and dressed in a black suit with a red tie. He would leave at exactly five o’clock and he would arrive early in the morning. When people saw him, they would always see him staring at a painting of a woman with eyes that were the green of the leaves during spring. If one asked him a question, he would not answer and for this, many saw him as rude. At times he would nod his head, an action that made those around him believe that he heard things in his head, taht exploded and persisted throughout his days. There were no other people for him, and for this, the urge to let tears roll down his cheeks would falter.
Tani
I first saw you cry in the back of an art gallery. You held your head between your legs and choked on the tears that rolled down your face. Your eyes were red and told me things you could never have.
I am at a gallery. I am looking at a painting, quite abstract. But it is looking back at me. Almost nodding that I don’t understand what is painted. But I wish for that. I wish to be a painting, hung on this wall in front of me, and watch people: watch people walk by, uninterested, some interested; watch people gaze at me and nod understandingly or look puzzled; but mainly, always know what I will be here again and nothing will change save the people looking at me. It’s a nice reassurance, when nothing is as certain as this painting on this wall.
Sitting back in this rugged chair afforded me the comfort many men wished they had. But then again I spent my life fighting to have half of what the ordinary man has; a peace of mind Only in old age, and all alone was I able to understand why I was placed in this world, with a full head of heavy ideas on weak shoulders and strong legs..
In a turn of events, it seemed the crowd really enjoyed the juxtaposition of the contoured nudes against the city lights. I had to resist the urge to yell out how utterly impressed with my genius I was.
Photos of me and you, places to see, places to do. Art at its finest, hung on the walls.
Tastefully done for all to see, sharing the mystery of you and me. I love the frames, the colors the hues, of a stained glass window from our photo gallery.
Maree Joy
a gallerey of writing is what is created. yes sir yes mam, put mu nose down and just press on through. there’s a place in my mingd that i can’t go right now. so i think i’ll just die. not untill later will i find myself in this gallerey of minds.
We went to see the gallery. Art’s finest hanging on the walls. Vivid colours and beautiful images. But I’m not surprised that my eyes are exclusively on you. Your beauty simply surpasses all of those around me.
Art galleries are always free on Thursday’s. No matter how hard I try I can never make time in my busy schedule to go.I think they plan it that way. Art always has to cost something. Or else it isn’t art right?
Chelsey
She supposes it could be termed a gallery…although it seems to her human mind a very strange format. Wild plants stream over the crumbling walls, ivys and wisteria and bougianvilla, grasses and wildflowers act as carpet. Faded gold picture frames are hung on the walls, boxing in seemingly random selections of fauna.
Katie
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
how do you confess to something
that you don’t feel at all?
I’m stuck between the shards
reflecting thoughts back at me
like standing among the paintings
of a futuristic gallery.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
save me as I start to fall.
walking. endlessly. they call this a gallery. i am wandering in a sea of colors. splashes. waves. colors. all over the walls. people staring, taking notes. what do they see? where is the exit. everywhere there is confusion.
debi
The gallery was nearly empty, filled with the shadows of the afternoon sun and lurkers who weren’t brave enough to show their face during the benefit gala.
“It’s lovely.” A veiled woman in black nodded towards a gilt-framed piece. “What do you think, darling?”
The chubby fellow beside her merely wrinkled his nose. “That ugly thing? Never!”
Her shoulders drooped and her head bowed.
The attendant watched him waddle away and then reached into the open glass case to his left. He lifted out the ancient dagger and handed it to the veiled woman.
She accepted with one velvet gloved hand. “Confirmed?”
I walked to the art gallery.I was very excited that i would get open to open an exhibit of paintings painted by my mother.Suddenly a shady man pulled me aside and said’I want those paintings,and I’ll do anything to get them!”I felt a shiver pass through my spine.
Jacqueline
What good is a little apartment rented for one short year, displaying the life that we once had? No need for the compliments. You can take the vase and the books and the Polaroid photos on the wall. I’m not even going to take credit for this piece I invested my time and soul in, so tell everyone you were the mastermind behind the relationship that seemed to last. You think you’re all that anyway.
i saw her through the green glass door. her hair swept back, a scarf laying sweetly across her chin. she looked back, and i walked toward her. into the gallery.
i followed as she swam through the art, the history that floated around us. but i couldn’t even notice. not when she looked so beautiful
pablo
I have a gallery in my house. It used to be my daughter’s bedroom and it still does have a guest bed in the room. The walls have wires on them and there are paintings on every wall. I like to put up whatever art I have recently created. I keep a variety of pieces up on the wall. It is adjacent to the room that now serves as my studio (instead of Sonny Boy’s bedroom).
J O'Neill
she walked inside and stared at the ceiling. the walls were crisp and clean waiting to be filled. she smiled unable to hold in her excitement but mostly thrilled that she finally got to rest. she was exhausted and now she could rest. if only for this one night. she sat down on the wooden bench facing the large wall as two men came in carrying her first piece wrapped in an excessive amount of plastic and further protected by a piece of cardboard over the face of the piece.
lee
You always see the right people at art museums. You try to look like you are focusing intently on the artwork in front of you, brow furrowed and mouth downturned, but you are more interested in the people around you. Dark and dramatic, wobbly with cigarette smoke, speaking in hushed whispers and radiating a sort of carefree, artistic ellegance that you, with your catholic school uniform and anxiety disorder, will never be able to emulate.
Of course you envy them. You know you’ve been trying to be more like them than you let on. You drink copious amounts of coffee, which obviously does nothing for your already palpiating heart and sweating hands. You finally invested in a proper coat, naturally black in color, instead of wearing your far warmer yet juvenile parka. You try for all the world to look indifferent, but only manage to appear a peculiar, alienating combination of sad and angry.
Someday, you will make the transition. You want to have a proper place in those galleries.
the work hung in the center of the gallery. hidden in plain sight. where else would one put something that obvious? that incriminating. that horrific.
debra
Sherlock stood in front of the display case, peering in at the ancient hominid skulls. There, below them, were the old teapots, their clay starting to crack after a few years of misuse. John came away from where he’d been peering a wall of the gallery, and came close to Sherlock, sharing in his view of the human remains.
“Just as dead as when we first saw them,” John smiled, weaving his hand in with Sherlock’s gloved one, where it was met with a gentle squeeze. “Though they’ve since patched up the bullet holes in the walls. Must have cost them a fortune to replace the granite.”
“They didn’t,” Sherlock answered as he led John away by the hand, already bored with the skulls, “It’s just a wax fill-in.”
In the gallery, the paintings were melting. Not due to the hot sun, but due to the gaze of the surrealist, sipping a glass of sauvignon blanc imported from Italian (which he had surprisingly been able to sneak into the museum without anyone noticing. The guard even asked for a sip). As his Dalí-esque mustache bounced with excitement, he let his arms become crooked like the hands of the clock and tick tock, tick tock away.
Belinda Roddie
The tapestries stretched down the seemingly never-ending hallway like an art gallery back on Earth. They told stories, old, new, epic, and normal; these were the stories that made up history. As she lived in the castle, Gwen made sure to spend at least 30 minutes studying the tapestries, sometimes with Drake or Leo, frequently with Serena, and occasionally by herself. She loved to take midnight strolls along the corridors, discovering new tapestries as she went.
And as if by chance I distinguished a mark in the painting I’d so admired. A mark that was unique and undeniable. A mark so familiar, I held my mouth shut with one hand as I realized the 20 foot nude on display was me. That bastard!
I scanned the gallery of your pictures. I tried to hold back but I end up crying again. I can’t get you out of my mind. It’s like I’m burying myself inside your cold world.
There is a new art gallery opening in town this week. It will be filled with all the beautiful things of local artisans. It will contain pottery and paintings, jewelry and clay figurines. All the beautiful things that inspire their creator. They are placing them there in the hopes of inspiring others.
There’s a gallery in the back room, where my father never lets me go, it’s filled with pictures of people I don’t know, that I’ve never knew. My grandfather’s picture hangs here, but he’s my grandfather only by name because he was dead by the time I was born. My father’s own picture is destined for the spot next to his father, empty for now because my father at the time, is barely pushing thirty. Next to his spot, someday, will be me.
Just another picture in your gallery, Is that it? Well one piece doesn’t quite fill it, and satisfy so quickly, a new piece must be added to the collection. Before you know tons of pretty bobble headed pieces are hanging in your gallery. One day while you are old and greay, you’ll look back and see the most beautiful painting you’ve ever seen. You missed it. Someone else has found it. Sucks right man? Eat shit.
I dont know what to write, but I want to write a letter for you.
Cole looked left, slyly, at Aurora’s face, open in wonder at the pictures and paintings in the gallery. Grabbing her hand, he leaned into her, whispering with all the corniness of an Iowa agricultural center, “nothing here matches your beauty.”
Cole looked left, slyly, at Aurora’s face, open in wonder at the pictures and paintings in the gallery. Grabbing her hand, he leaned into her, whispering with all the corniness of an Iowa agricultural center, “nothing here matches your beauty”
when i look into your eyes, that’s when the doors open to your gallery. an exhibition filled with lingering memories, scraping their way out to the surface. displays of your emotions on the canvas of your soul – the anger, the pain, the regret – this is what I will never forget.
lots of pictures hanging up and people walking around and looking at them. many of them are photographs and others are paintings that people have made to display and possibly have sold. the walls are white and everyone is dressed nicely and carrying a cocktail or a champagne glass. the curator is walking around greeting people while the artists stand by their pieces and mingle trying to get people to buy one. this is just lik ethe scen
A collection of pictures standing, leaning, listing, slowly falling and descending down the blank wall with its chipping paint and bleached, colorless wallpaper and dust, dust, dust everywhere. It was a gallery of broken hearts and forgotten memories. My dreams.
view paintings
appreciate art
sculpture
astonished by colors
abstract
wander at beauty
bask in creativity
classic
modern
postmodern
see
date
view
appreciate
forever
its where you go to get inspired
The art gallery down the street remains the last building left untouched. Everything else is gone. The parks, the trees, the stone walls and fences surrounding the homes and apartments. it’s all gone.
His face is a playbook of strange expressions. He has a whole gallery of them neatly tucked away under the skin, using them as they seem fit. It’s odd how everything he does seems so calculated, so turned over in his head. He’s made jabs at ‘normal people’ on more than several occasions for our brains being so ‘silly’, ‘bland’ and ‘blank’, but sometimes, I’m glad for it. His is such a frenzy of oncoming thoughts, like a tornado coming in and clobbering them around. I would get an aneurysm from having so much tussling around together in my skull, so in a way, I admire him for being able to even understand the mess.
i went to a gallery to see a painting but the painting looked at me funny so i pushed it off the wall and it began to bounced, bounced al around the room knocking into walls and people and knocking other paintings off the walls and sculptures to the ground before it waltzed out the door
A gallery of unfinished masterpieces in my wardrobe are the only reminders I have left of my failed attempts.
There was pages and pages of sheet music (that I had rehearsed endlessly to have perfect); each holding the scribbles and corrections he and I had made for our duets. I could still remember every word and note (“Amore purduto… piango, piango, piango…”).
The ripped remnants of my first condom that I ever saw (and used). Perhaps this is the reason I kept his face blurry and shadowed in the back of my mind. There are pictures too somewhere that also prove his existence, but they’re lost in the sea of images, I’m sure, on my sisters Cannon.
And then there was the grey sweater, with tiny blue horizontal stripes. That one’s at the back, pushed behind all the other canvases of maybe mistakes and impossible possibles. It still smelled like the lake, like the sand between my toes, and the s’mores on my tongue. Like that night, like those many nights.
But I suppose I ruined that too. It sits with all the others, crowded in the wardrobe. And I, out here, alone.
They were wandering around what appeared to be a perfectly harmless gallery. The pair of them knew otherwise though. This was where a bomb was goin to be plante in five minutes but the two o them had to find a man name radsome and tell him where it was do that no one died. Also because this was one of the doctors fixed points and he knew it.
The bright blue gallery on the south side of town was known for a lone visitor. He wore a hat and dressed in a black suit with a red tie. He would leave at exactly five o’clock and he would arrive early in the morning. When people saw him, they would always see him staring at a painting of a woman with eyes that were the green of the leaves during spring. If one asked him a question, he would not answer and for this, many saw him as rude. At times he would nod his head, an action that made those around him believe that he heard things in his head, taht exploded and persisted throughout his days. There were no other people for him, and for this, the urge to let tears roll down his cheeks would falter.
I first saw you cry in the back of an art gallery. You held your head between your legs and choked on the tears that rolled down your face. Your eyes were red and told me things you could never have.
I am at a gallery. I am looking at a painting, quite abstract. But it is looking back at me. Almost nodding that I don’t understand what is painted. But I wish for that. I wish to be a painting, hung on this wall in front of me, and watch people: watch people walk by, uninterested, some interested; watch people gaze at me and nod understandingly or look puzzled; but mainly, always know what I will be here again and nothing will change save the people looking at me. It’s a nice reassurance, when nothing is as certain as this painting on this wall.
Sitting back in this rugged chair afforded me the comfort many men wished they had. But then again I spent my life fighting to have half of what the ordinary man has; a peace of mind Only in old age, and all alone was I able to understand why I was placed in this world, with a full head of heavy ideas on weak shoulders and strong legs..
In a turn of events, it seemed the crowd really enjoyed the juxtaposition of the contoured nudes against the city lights. I had to resist the urge to yell out how utterly impressed with my genius I was.
Photos of me and you, places to see, places to do. Art at its finest, hung on the walls.
Tastefully done for all to see, sharing the mystery of you and me. I love the frames, the colors the hues, of a stained glass window from our photo gallery.
a gallerey of writing is what is created. yes sir yes mam, put mu nose down and just press on through. there’s a place in my mingd that i can’t go right now. so i think i’ll just die. not untill later will i find myself in this gallerey of minds.
We went to see the gallery. Art’s finest hanging on the walls. Vivid colours and beautiful images. But I’m not surprised that my eyes are exclusively on you. Your beauty simply surpasses all of those around me.
Art galleries are always free on Thursday’s. No matter how hard I try I can never make time in my busy schedule to go.I think they plan it that way. Art always has to cost something. Or else it isn’t art right?
She supposes it could be termed a gallery…although it seems to her human mind a very strange format. Wild plants stream over the crumbling walls, ivys and wisteria and bougianvilla, grasses and wildflowers act as carpet. Faded gold picture frames are hung on the walls, boxing in seemingly random selections of fauna.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
how do you confess to something
that you don’t feel at all?
I’m stuck between the shards
reflecting thoughts back at me
like standing among the paintings
of a futuristic gallery.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
save me as I start to fall.
walking. endlessly. they call this a gallery. i am wandering in a sea of colors. splashes. waves. colors. all over the walls. people staring, taking notes. what do they see? where is the exit. everywhere there is confusion.
The gallery was nearly empty, filled with the shadows of the afternoon sun and lurkers who weren’t brave enough to show their face during the benefit gala.
“It’s lovely.” A veiled woman in black nodded towards a gilt-framed piece. “What do you think, darling?”
The chubby fellow beside her merely wrinkled his nose. “That ugly thing? Never!”
Her shoulders drooped and her head bowed.
The attendant watched him waddle away and then reached into the open glass case to his left. He lifted out the ancient dagger and handed it to the veiled woman.
She accepted with one velvet gloved hand. “Confirmed?”
“Lights out in five.”
I walked to the art gallery.I was very excited that i would get open to open an exhibit of paintings painted by my mother.Suddenly a shady man pulled me aside and said’I want those paintings,and I’ll do anything to get them!”I felt a shiver pass through my spine.
What good is a little apartment rented for one short year, displaying the life that we once had? No need for the compliments. You can take the vase and the books and the Polaroid photos on the wall. I’m not even going to take credit for this piece I invested my time and soul in, so tell everyone you were the mastermind behind the relationship that seemed to last. You think you’re all that anyway.
i saw her through the green glass door. her hair swept back, a scarf laying sweetly across her chin. she looked back, and i walked toward her. into the gallery.
i followed as she swam through the art, the history that floated around us. but i couldn’t even notice. not when she looked so beautiful
I have a gallery in my house. It used to be my daughter’s bedroom and it still does have a guest bed in the room. The walls have wires on them and there are paintings on every wall. I like to put up whatever art I have recently created. I keep a variety of pieces up on the wall. It is adjacent to the room that now serves as my studio (instead of Sonny Boy’s bedroom).
she walked inside and stared at the ceiling. the walls were crisp and clean waiting to be filled. she smiled unable to hold in her excitement but mostly thrilled that she finally got to rest. she was exhausted and now she could rest. if only for this one night. she sat down on the wooden bench facing the large wall as two men came in carrying her first piece wrapped in an excessive amount of plastic and further protected by a piece of cardboard over the face of the piece.
You always see the right people at art museums. You try to look like you are focusing intently on the artwork in front of you, brow furrowed and mouth downturned, but you are more interested in the people around you. Dark and dramatic, wobbly with cigarette smoke, speaking in hushed whispers and radiating a sort of carefree, artistic ellegance that you, with your catholic school uniform and anxiety disorder, will never be able to emulate.
Of course you envy them. You know you’ve been trying to be more like them than you let on. You drink copious amounts of coffee, which obviously does nothing for your already palpiating heart and sweating hands. You finally invested in a proper coat, naturally black in color, instead of wearing your far warmer yet juvenile parka. You try for all the world to look indifferent, but only manage to appear a peculiar, alienating combination of sad and angry.
Someday, you will make the transition. You want to have a proper place in those galleries.
the work hung in the center of the gallery. hidden in plain sight. where else would one put something that obvious? that incriminating. that horrific.
Sherlock stood in front of the display case, peering in at the ancient hominid skulls. There, below them, were the old teapots, their clay starting to crack after a few years of misuse. John came away from where he’d been peering a wall of the gallery, and came close to Sherlock, sharing in his view of the human remains.
“Just as dead as when we first saw them,” John smiled, weaving his hand in with Sherlock’s gloved one, where it was met with a gentle squeeze. “Though they’ve since patched up the bullet holes in the walls. Must have cost them a fortune to replace the granite.”
“They didn’t,” Sherlock answered as he led John away by the hand, already bored with the skulls, “It’s just a wax fill-in.”
In the gallery, the paintings were melting. Not due to the hot sun, but due to the gaze of the surrealist, sipping a glass of sauvignon blanc imported from Italian (which he had surprisingly been able to sneak into the museum without anyone noticing. The guard even asked for a sip). As his Dalí-esque mustache bounced with excitement, he let his arms become crooked like the hands of the clock and tick tock, tick tock away.
The tapestries stretched down the seemingly never-ending hallway like an art gallery back on Earth. They told stories, old, new, epic, and normal; these were the stories that made up history. As she lived in the castle, Gwen made sure to spend at least 30 minutes studying the tapestries, sometimes with Drake or Leo, frequently with Serena, and occasionally by herself. She loved to take midnight strolls along the corridors, discovering new tapestries as she went.
And as if by chance I distinguished a mark in the painting I’d so admired. A mark that was unique and undeniable. A mark so familiar, I held my mouth shut with one hand as I realized the 20 foot nude on display was me. That bastard!
I scanned the gallery of your pictures. I tried to hold back but I end up crying again. I can’t get you out of my mind. It’s like I’m burying myself inside your cold world.
There is a new art gallery opening in town this week. It will be filled with all the beautiful things of local artisans. It will contain pottery and paintings, jewelry and clay figurines. All the beautiful things that inspire their creator. They are placing them there in the hopes of inspiring others.
There’s a gallery in the back room, where my father never lets me go, it’s filled with pictures of people I don’t know, that I’ve never knew. My grandfather’s picture hangs here, but he’s my grandfather only by name because he was dead by the time I was born. My father’s own picture is destined for the spot next to his father, empty for now because my father at the time, is barely pushing thirty. Next to his spot, someday, will be me.