Foto

 Ich finde auf dem Baumstamm kann man ein Gesicht erkennen... Wer auch?

Frohe Weihnachten

Fröhliche und besinnliche Weihnachten... Ich wünsch euch allen ein wunderschönes Weihnachtsfest und dass all eure Wünsche in Erfüllung gehen... ♥

So so heute mal weider ein neuer Post

Hab ja schon lange nichts mehr von mir hören lassen...
Gab aber auch wirklich nichts besonderes zu posten. Nichts spannendes passiert. Mittlerweile hat sich auch meine hysterisch anmutende Begeisterung für Little Ashes wieder ein wenig gelegt. Ich bin einfach nur hin und weg von Federico Garcia Lorca und seinem Schauspieler Javier Beltrán....
Ich liebe ihn...(Lorca)

Nächster Punkt.
Ich hasse es wenn jemand ... als Antwort schreibt. XD Es macht einfach für mich keinen Sinn.

Es Weihnachtet sehr...
Naja nicht wirklich. Obwohl das Fest immer näher rückt. Kommt bei mir absolut keine Weihnachtsstimmung auf. Nichtmal Schnee haben wir. Wo ist der? Wo bleibt der?
Alle Weihnachtsmärkte sind auch vorbei und ich hab noch nicht annähern die Hälfte der Geschenke... Naja dass kann ja was werden...

Das Wochenende war ganz ok... Am Samstag kam mein Wii-Spiel und das Geschenk für Mama dass ich bei Amazon bestellt habe. Ging echt schnell...

Das Wii-Spiel ist eigentlich ganz toll, aber bei 30 Songs wirds alleine irgendwann langweilig...

Sonntag 18.12.2011
Der Tag war eigentlich ganz ok. War Christbaum kaufen. Son richtig buschiges Kerlchen wurde es dann, die anderen waren echt hässlich. Nachdem zuschneiden bleib aber nicht mehr viel übrig von dem Bäumchen XD.  Naja man sollte dazu sagen, dass er mind. 2 Meter groß war.

Später am Abend kam dann doch noch meine Freundin zum wöchentlichen Fernsehabend. War echt lustig. Aber wie immer kam nichts im Fernsehen was uns angesprochen hätte. So schauten wir uns dann kurzer Hand Interview mit einem Vampir an.

Meiner Meinung nach neben Wes Craven's Dracula Triologie einer der besten Vampirfilme. Und noch eins Top Besetzung:
Tom Cruise - Lestat de Lioncourt
Brad Pitt - Louis de Pointe du Lac
Kirsten Dunst - Claudia

Was die wohl zu ihren glitzernden Kollegen sagen würden? XD

http://www.carter-stephenson.co.uk/louis/louis8.jpg
http://www.testedich.de/quiz25/picture/pic_1206364202_8.jpg
http://www.freewebs.com/darkangel_claudia/76df.jpg

Hier an dieser Stelle muss ich ach gleich mal sagen dass ich Anne Rice, die Autorin der Bücher unglaublich bewundere. 5 Wochen für das Buch Interview mit einem Vampir... Ich schreibe bereits seit
 3 Jahren an meinem Buch (bzw Bücher) und bin immer noch nicht annähernd zufrieden, also echt Respekt...


Beste Aussage:


 Anne Rice Says Stephenie Meyer “Dumbed Down” Vampires 


Danke Anne Rice und ich dachte schon ich wäre der bzw. die Einzige die das so sieht..., aber Recht hat sie!
Vampire sind nicht zum kuscheln da und auch keine Discokugeln...






Von künstlerischer Seite gibt es nicht viel zu sagen. Hatte keine Zeit zu malen.


Jedoch bei meinen Legenden gibt es einen Fortschritt zu verkünden. Zwei sind fertig... =) Fehlt nur noch die letzte und schwierigste =)


So hier noch ein Bild was mich echt fasziniert hat

http://images5.fanpop.com/image/photos/25000000/FAULT-Magazine-tom-felton-25048251-800-533.jpg


Oh ja das ist Tom Felton

Ein Andalusischer Hund von Dali und Bunuel 

Der erste Film der Filmgeschichte der zu einem Skandal wurde...

Ode a Salvador Dali

Ode a Salvador Dali - Federico Garcia Lorca

A rose in the high garden you desire.

A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.

The mountain stripped bare of Impressionist fog,

The grays watching over the last balustrades.

The modern painters in their white ateliers

clip the square root's sterilized flower.

In the waters of the Seine a marble iceberg

chills the windows and scatters the ivy.

Man treads firmly on the cobbled streets.

Crystals hide from the magic of reflections.

The Government has closed the perfume stores.

The machine perpetuates its binary beat.

An absence of forests and screens and brows

roams across the roofs of the old houses.

The air polishes its prism on the sea

and the horizon rises like a great aqueduct.

Soldiers who know no wine and no penumbra

behead the sirens on the seas of lead.

Night, black statue of prudence, holds

the moon's round mirror in her hand.

A desire for forms and limits overwhelms us.

Here comes the man who sees with a yellow ruler.

Venus is a white still life

and the butterfly collectors run away.

*

Cadaqués, at the fulcrum of water and hill,

lifts flights of stairs and hides seashells.

Wooden flutes pacify the air.

An ancient woodland god gives the children fruit.

Her fishermen sleep dreamless on the sand.

On the high sea a rose is their compass.

The horizon, virgin of wounded handkerchiefs,

links the great crystals of fish and moon.

A hard diadem of white brigantines

encircles bitter foreheads and hair of sand.

The sirens convince, but they don't beguile,

and they come if we show a glass of fresh water.

*

Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!

I do not praise your halting adolescent brush

or your pigments that flirt with the pigment of your times,

but I laud your longing for eternity with limits.

Sanitary soul, you live upon new marble.

You run from the dark jungle of improbable forms.

Your fancy reaches only as far as your hands,

and you enjoy the sonnet of the sea in your window.

The world is dull penumbra and disorder

in the foreground where man is found.

But now the stars, concealing landscapes,

reveal the perfect schema of their courses.

The current of time pools and gains order

in the numbered forms of century after century.

And conquered Death takes refuge trembling

in the tight circle of the present instant.

When you take up your palette, a bullet hole in its wing,

you call on the light that brings the olive tree to life.

The broad light of Minerva, builder of scaffolds,

where there is no room for dream or its hazy flower.

You call on the old light that stays on the brow,

not descending to the mouth or the heart of man.

A light feared by the loving vines of Bacchus

and the chaotic force of curving water.

You do well when you post warning flags

along the dark limit that shines in the night.

As a painter, you refuse to have your forms softened

by the shifting cotton of an unexpected cloud.

The fish in the fishbowl and the bird in the cage.

You refuse to invent them in the sea or the air.

You stylize or copy once you have seen

their small, agile bodies with your honest eyes.

You love a matter definite and exact,

where the toadstool cannot pitch its camp.

You love the architecture that builds on the absent

and admit the flag simply as a joke. 

The steel compass tells its short, elastic verse.

Unknown clouds rise to deny the sphere exists.

The straight line tells of its upward struggle

and the learned crystals sing their geometries.

*

But also the rose of the garden where you live.

Always the rose, always, our north and south!

Calm and ingathered like an eyeless statue,

not knowing the buried struggle it provokes.

Pure rose, clean of artifice and rough sketches,

opening for us the slender wings of the smile.

(Pinned butterfly that ponders its flight.)

Rose of balance, with no self-inflicted pains. 

Always the rose!

*

Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!

I speak of what your person and your paintings tell me.

I do not praise your halting adolescent brush,

but I sing the steady aim of your arrows.

I sing your fair struggle of Catalan lights,

your love of what might be made clear.

I sing your astronomical and tender heart,

a never-wounded deck of French cards.

I sing your restless longing for the statue,

your fear of the feelings that await you in the street.

I sing the small sea siren who sings to you,

riding her bicycle of corals and conches.

But above all I sing a common thought

that joins us in the dark and golden hours.

The light that blinds our eyes is not art.

Rather it is love, friendship, crossed swords.

Not the picture you patiently trace,

but the breast of Theresa, she of sleepless skin,

the tight-wound curls of Mathilde the ungrateful,

our friendship, painted bright as a game board.

May fingerprints of blood on gold

streak the heart of eternal Catalunya.

May stars like falconless fists shine on you,

while your painting and your life break into flower.

Don't watch the water clock with its membraned wings

or the hard scythe of the allegory.

Always in the air, dress and undress your brush

before the sea peopled with sailors and ships.

Ich sing der Statuen Sehnsucht, der ohne Unterlass du folgst. 

Die Furcht vor der Erregung, die deiner auf der Straße wartet. 

Ich sing des Meers Sierenchen das für dich dort singt. 

Auf einem Fahrrad aus Korallen und Muscheln. 

Vor allem aber sing ein gemeinsam denken ich, 

das uns vereinigt in den dunkeln  und den goldnen stunden. 

Nicht ist die Kunst das Licht, das uns die Augen blendet, 

die Liebe ists zuerst, die Freundschaft oder auch das Fechten

Ich liebe es.

Sin Limites

Little Ashes - Lorca y Dali

Der schwarze Filzstift musste ja den Geist aufgeben XD
(Selbst gezeichnet! Nicht abgepaust! Kein Schattenspiel!)

Ente

???

Einfach nur total verwirrt!!!

Film den ich unbedingt sehen will

So nebenbei... Ich liebe Jackson Rathbone

Wort des Tages

!ABNORM!         Robert Pattinson als Salvador Dali

Hahahahahaha

Zitat des Tages... Twilight hätte nicht den Teen Choice Award usw gewinnen sollen, sondern den Comedypreis...

Selten so gut gelacht...


http://diepresse.com/images/uploads//5/2/4/484644/u_SCHIMPANSEN_VERLASSEN_DEN_ZOO_ZUERICH.jpg

Hier kommen mal ein paar Outfits der Hauptfigur Ina Liòn aus meinem Buch

Gaspard Menier

Alex Chung, Jon Kortajarena, Gaspard Menier

Ode to Salvador Dali - Ich liebe es...

Federico Garcia Lorca - Ode to Salvador Dali

A rose in the high garden you desire.
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped bare of Impressionist fog,
The grays watching over the last balustrades.

The modern painters in their white ateliers
clip the square root's sterilized flower.
In the waters of the Seine a marble iceberg
chills the windows and scatters the ivy.

Man treads firmly on the cobbled streets.
Crystals hide from the magic of reflections.
The Government has closed the perfume stores.
The machine perpetuates its binary beat.

An absence of forests and screens and brows
roams across the roofs of the old houses.
The air polishes its prism on the sea
and the horizon rises like a great aqueduct.

Soldiers who know no wine and no penumbra
behead the sirens on the seas of lead.
Night, black statue of prudence, holds
the moon's round mirror in her hand.

A desire for forms and limits overwhelms us.
Here comes the man who sees with a yellow ruler.
Venus is a white still life
and the butterfly collectors run away.


*

Cadaqués, at the fulcrum of water and hill,
lifts flights of stairs and hides seashells.
Wooden flutes pacify the air.
An ancient woodland god gives the children fruit.

Her fishermen sleep dreamless on the sand.
On the high sea a rose is their compass.
The horizon, virgin of wounded handkerchiefs,
links the great crystals of fish and moon.

A hard diadem of white brigantines
encircles bitter foreheads and hair of sand.
The sirens convince, but they don't beguile,
and they come if we show a glass of fresh water.


*

Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush
or your pigments that flirt with the pigment of your times,
but I laud your longing for eternity with limits.

Sanitary soul, you live upon new marble.
You run from the dark jungle of improbable forms.
Your fancy reaches only as far as your hands,
and you enjoy the sonnet of the sea in your window.

The world is dull penumbra and disorder
in the foreground where man is found.
But now the stars, concealing landscapes,
reveal the perfect schema of their courses.

The current of time pools and gains order
in the numbered forms of century after century.
And conquered Death takes refuge trembling
in the tight circle of the present instant.

When you take up your palette, a bullet hole in its wing,
you call on the light that brings the olive tree to life.
The broad light of Minerva, builder of scaffolds,
where there is no room for dream or its hazy flower.

You call on the old light that stays on the brow,
not descending to the mouth or the heart of man.
A light feared by the loving vines of Bacchus
and the chaotic force of curving water.

You do well when you post warning flags
along the dark limit that shines in the night.
As a painter, you refuse to have your forms softened
by the shifting cotton of an unexpected cloud.

The fish in the fishbowl and the bird in the cage.
You refuse to invent them in the sea or the air.
You stylize or copy once you have seen
their small, agile bodies with your honest eyes.

You love a matter definite and exact,
where the toadstool cannot pitch its camp.
You love the architecture that builds on the absent
and admit the flag simply as a joke. 

The steel compass tells its short, elastic verse.
Unknown clouds rise to deny the sphere exists.
The straight line tells of its upward struggle
and the learned crystals sing their geometries.


*

But also the rose of the garden where you live.
Always the rose, always, our north and south!
Calm and ingathered like an eyeless statue,
not knowing the buried struggle it provokes.

Pure rose, clean of artifice and rough sketches,
opening for us the slender wings of the smile.
(Pinned butterfly that ponders its flight.)
Rose of balance, with no self-inflicted pains. 
Always the rose!


*

Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!
I speak of what your person and your paintings tell me.
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush,
but I sing the steady aim of your arrows.

I sing your fair struggle of Catalan lights,
your love of what might be made clear.
I sing your astronomical and tender heart,
a never-wounded deck of French cards.

I sing your restless longing for the statue,
your fear of the feelings that await you in the street.
I sing the small sea siren who sings to you,
riding her bicycle of corals and conches.

But above all I sing a common thought
that joins us in the dark and golden hours.
The light that blinds our eyes is not art.
Rather it is love, friendship, crossed swords.

Not the picture you patiently trace,
but the breast of Theresa, she of sleepless skin,
the tight-wound curls of Mathilde the ungrateful,
our friendship, painted bright as a game board.

May fingerprints of blood on gold
streak the heart of eternal Catalunya.
May stars like falconless fists shine on you,
while your painting and your life break into flower.

Don't watch the water clock with its membraned wings
or the hard scythe of the allegory.
Always in the air, dress and undress your brush
before the sea peopled with sailors and ships.

http://www.artofeurope.com/lorca/lor2.htm

Gestern. Projekt... Haribo macht Kinder froh und Erwachsne ebenso...

Zahnschmerzen...

Gestern und Heute war ein von Zahnschmerzen geplagter Tag..., so schlimm dass ich heute morgen nicht arbeiten konnte und ICH sogar überlegt habe zum ZAHNARZT zu gehen... Aber zum Glück gibt es Dolormin Migräne...

Fotografie 26.10.2011

 Betrunken

 Schnelligkeit