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ARTIST: John Swope TITLE: Trees in Fog (Chile) DATE: 1939 MEDIUM: vintage gelatin silver print SIZE: h: 10 x w: 8 in via www.craigkrullgallery.com/Swope.J/index2.html
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Pintdecor GATTINO DAL PELO ROSSO Cadrul cm. 70 x 100
Far away, in a valley tucked away up in the mountains, there stood a toy-making village. All children young and old took pride in their village trade and learned well the crafts of their fathers and mothers. Throughout the entire world, no one could build toys as fine as theirs. Growing up, boys and girls would make toys and give them to each other to play. As the children grew older, however, they wished to exchange and play with something finer. So the children would go into their homes and dig out their precious little box and pull out the loveliest toy they had. For years they had been adding embellishments and colour to the wooden structure and they grew tired of keeping it locked away in a box. Very soon into their young adult years, these fine toys would be brought to be played with. Some children would give their special toy to anyone, others only gave it to people they cared specially about. Still, one by one, year by year, the toys would wear and break. The children would do what they could to fix it, but it would never be the same. In this village there lived a girl of sweet nature. Unlike the other girls her age, she kept her toy safely in its locked box. Sometimes boys would come up to her and encourage her to play with their toys, hoping for hers in return. Sometimes, when she was lonely or the toy looked specially fun, she didn't feel as though she could help herself, and would take up the toy and play with it. Sometimes, but very rarely, she would open her box and bring out her toy, but it was never long before she quickly took it back and locked it safely in its case. Afterwards she would open it up and gaze at it, then she would cry. It never looked as nice as it did before she took it out and gave it to someone to play with. The village girls and boys and adults all told her the toy was hers and that she should bring it out to play with before it was old and ugly and no one wanted it anymore. They told her she should add embellishments, because, though hers was plain and pretty, it was still too plain. She wondered why she didn't feel that way. Maybe it was because it was her only connection too her parents. She never remembered them treating it like a toy, they treated it like a treasure and gift. She wished she could take her toy out and play with it, but it was always too precious and she was too afraid it would break and soil. One days while walking the length of the valley she looked up to see smoke floating into the air. She thought it looked like smoke from a chimney. There was a legend, she recalled, about a toy maker who lived farther up in the mountains. He made the finest toys and it was by him that the first villagers learned their art. Maybe he could tell her about her toy. Maybe he could fix it! And make it the most beautiful toy ever! The girl ran back to the village, grabbed her box, holding it close, and followed the smoke cloud. It was not long before she appeared in a clearing. At the centre was a log cabin. There was also a garden. In it an old man was working. The girl smiled. There was something friendly and grandfatherly about this elderly man. "Hello, young lady, how can I help you?" He said, turning around. "Are you the grand toy maker?" She asked. "I don't make toys," he said, "I make treasures." He couldn't be referring to what had always been called their toys, she thought and hoped. How dreadful if what they played with was really a gift from this man. If that were true, how many hours he must have laboured over each one, she thought. "I see you have my gift for you in that box you carry. Do you bring it with you everywhere?" He remarked, to her surprise. Without saying a word, she held it out to him, even though everything inside of her wanted to hold it closer so he couldn't see, there was some stronger force that wanted desperately to give it to him. With a gentle smile, he took the box. "It needs a key," he mentioned. She searched her pockets and clothes, but realised to her despair that she had left it at home. "I don't have it," she exclaimed. "Do you wish I could see it?" He asked. The girl nodded. To her surprise, the man opened the box as though there were no lock. "Lovely," he exclaimed to her. She did not know what to say. All she could think of was all the times she had let it be played with and all the times the villagers told her that her treasure was plain and not pleasing. "It is chipped right there," she mentioned. "Don't think about that," he told her, "my son will be home soon and he can fix it for you. I think it is beautiful." "Do you really?" She asked. "Of course I do!" The friendly man cried, "what is not to love about this wonderful gift." "It is terribly plain, despite the colour," observed the girl. "It is tastefully embellished, see how your own decor adds to the structure rather than distracts it," he extolled her workmanship, "it compliments each other very nicely." Never before had the girl's heart soared like it did now. She had only always known that whatever she did, her treasure was never good enough for long. "So it is a gift," she spoke up. The man nodded. "Did you make all those precious things?" she asked. "I did," he nodded. "Why?" He looked at her quietly then said, "I give each person a piece of my craftsmanship so they can then share it with whoever they choose. It was meant to resemble the beauty and uniqueness of each person and to be shared with the one they chose to spend the rest of their lives with. There is a difference, however. While the treasure can be damaged and can not be mended by anyone but my son, for to him I passed on my art, your value can not so much as be dented." The girl had never heard something so wonderful. "Has anyone else been to see you?" she asked. "Yes, a little boy, but he isn't so little anymore. He still comes and visits me quite frequently. I think he is out with my son." The hours ticked by and by, and the old man and the village girl talked and talked. She confessed and cried over her little treasure and apologized for being careless with it. He did not condemn nor excuse her, but it was such a relief to have someone listen. He encouraged her not to listen to the villagers who did not know their own hearts and minds, let alone her's. Then they spoke of wonderful things, happy things, and sad things. It was growing dark when they heard the front door open and two voices coming in. One was saying good-bye to the other. "That would be my son," the man told her. "Immanuel," he called, "a village girl has brought us her treasure and needs it to be mended." "Yes, Father," the young man said brightly, coming over, "Hello, my name is Immanuel. Would you like me to renew your treasure?" The girl nodded, wondering why he asked her, when his father already said so."Where is it?" The father handed the box to the girl, who timidly handed it to the son. Immanuel took the box over to the table and gingerly opened it, bringing out the treasure. The girl's face flushed when she saw it, but it flushed even more when she saw Immanuel take out his own treasure. Her eyes widened at how beautiful it was. His hands moved skillfully over both treasures, until at last, to her horror, he seemed to break his. "What are you doing," she nearly cried, then she saw he was using the pieces from his own to mend hers. "That was not worth it," she felt like saying, but the caring look in the father's eyes and the peaceful look in the son's convinced her that they believed it was. It was not long before her treasure was shining brighter than she had ever seen it. Immanuel lifted it up and gave it to her, "Now you have a piece of my treasure in yours. I hope it will stay safe, but never be afraid to come back to me to fix it for you." "Thank you," the girl gasped, tears filling her eyes. She could hardly believe he thought that her treasure was precious enough to take from his own, but now her heart believed it too, and her soul soared with joy. He smiled, "May I walk you back to the village?" "Yes, please," she answered. ------------ Sorry it's late! - Lynsi Keye
Robert Lewandowski of Bayern Muenchen celebrates after winning the Bundesliga match between FC Bayern Muenchen and SV Werder Bremen at Allianz Arena on April 20, 2019 in Munich, Germany.
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Ryszard Kaja to jeden z najważniejszych polskich plakacistów, malarz, scenograf i kostiumolog. Człowiek, który często mawiał “Wódka, cerata i śledzik to esencja Polski”! Nie bał się kontrowersji, dotykał tematów niełatwych w sposób wyjątkowy, zabawny, niejednokrotnie z fascynującym przekąsem. Ryszard Kaja zmarł w wieku 57 lat. Pochodził z Poznania, gdzie urodził się w 1962 roku. To wielka strata! Ryszard Kaja był absolwentem poznańskiej Wyższej Szkoły Sztuk Plastycznych, obecnie Uniwersytet Artystyczny w Poznaniu. Współpracował m.in. z Teatrem Wielkim w Poznaniu, Operą Narodową […]
茶色は、背景とテクスチャの木製の壁の木目テクスチャを描いた。に関するこの無料の写真をダウンロードし、Freepikで公開されている1万を超えるプロのストック写真を閲覧しよう. #freepik #写真 #板 #木の板 #板 背景
