Mendelson Shape
07-22-2008, 05:35 AM
Colorful Palette, Tasteless Judgement
A bleak night, no happy dreamer am I just a mere observer of the world of men. I walk with change as the world spins and the evolution of the greatest creation take pride in their own achievements. I pity the lot of them, they do not see the steps they have taken and the path already trodden, the sacrifices made to pave this new era of humanity, a path to self destruction. I see promise and hope in the many few whose minds reside out of this worldly tether and sees the big picture in the gallery of yeux curieux. An artist to stray from technology and shy away into a place of color and imagination. A man by the name of Mr. Vyle Karter.
A bright and colorful morning for a dose of surreal observation to a man of little status but whose hands boast of expression and form. A sleepy disposition but a readiness to work was Mr. Karter's style, no time for rest when there was paintings to inspire and people to admire them. Empty paint tubes scattered all over the floor, a by product canvas of a violent expressionist, this was no issue as he nimbly stepped over them and hurried off to freshen up for the day ahead. A look into the mirror reflected the mask behind the beauty, the only image of Mr. Karter that he didn't like. He wasn't handsome but borderline average at best, a humility that followed his physique and averted his eyes from any passerby that crossed his path.
http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/PF_New%5C422007/2729331~Untitled-Watercolor-c-1923-Posters.jpg
Wassily Kadinsky
A brush in one hand and a tasteful palette in the other, his poise before an empty canvas was the opening scene of this dramatic play. The brush work and the caress of the paint was almost as tender as to a loved one. The strong feelings were merciless slashes while the soft toners edge with delicate lines. At last, the curtains close and the empty paint tubes laid to rest on the floor as the creator steps back to admire something new and unique, a piece of the artist himself captured in a timeless symbol for others to judge themselves against. Such accomplishment was the only pride that Mr. Karter ever accepted and on a rare occasion like this, a real work of art was born.
http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/PF_NEW%5C09_14_2005_A/PF_1232514~Convergence-Posters.jpg
Jackson Pollock's Convergence
To sell his paintings were a heartbreaking affair but, a lifestyle demands maintenance and this was his means to earn his just rewards. Money, Mr. Karter looked at it at arm's length. Such a master to many, with powers greater than the will of man and the ability to command respect and authority. An insult indeed, but its necessity was only due to requirement to survive as simplicity was a luxury that Mr. Karter enjoyed more than anything. To be able to sit and look at the flaming orange sky light up the evening skyline with the dark grey of industry clash with the surreal picture of life. Such things are unheard of in the short sighted eyes of the twenty first century. Walking away from auction houses, arms considerably lighter and swinging, the sense of emptiness always filled Vyle and he looked up at the sky and it reminded him that each sunrise is unique as is each painting, but its value is only as much as its admirers that take the time to stop and look at it.
Another day without a messy brush or an emptied tube, time was passing Vyle without care and he had adopted the same attitude towards it. He took time instead to take evenings walks, see a motion picture at the local theater or sit in the park and look at the different strangers that passed him by. What has he been missing all those years he would wonder, what is there besides the subtlety and intricate designs of paintings and art. Those little outings over the weeks after he sold his last painting, had brought inspiration to Vyle, a feeling of freedom and yet confinement without any human interaction. Women passed by with slow steps and gentle whispers, he yearned to talk to them and learn about their different ways of life but his appearance was not one of vanity but of humble backgrounds. He returned each night to his apartment in the city and waited for time to change his mind.
Depression and uncontrolled emotions caused him to become ill and weak. His appearance had changed dramatically over the months of being shut away in his apartment, sometimes going days without eating anything at all. His resumed artistic creations were different from the others, charcoal and dark oil paints were staining his canvases instead of the colorful images he adorned so long ago. Paintings of women he had seen, nights he spent locked away in his room haunted his mind and crippled his hands. No one came, no one ever did. A once promising artist had been seduced by humanity and has fallen from the ranks of the artisans.
http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/PF%5C522004/PF_1097952~Strahlenlinien-Posters.jpg
Wassily Kadinsky's Strahlenlinien
Years had passed and money squandered, Vyle Karter a once renown artist from the big city had been forgotten by his loyal fans. Withered by neglect and depression, Vyle was dying and there was nothing that could be done since the sickness had gripped his body for so long. A now retiring expressionist lay in a mere hospital bed in his prime, with nothing to of his life's achievements but empty paint tubes and old stains on the walls and floor of his dilapidated apartment. Vyle opened his eyes and saw on the dank walls of his ward, was his first painting that he had ever sold. The lines, the color it was too much to look at. A remembrance of an old age of carefree living and a nostalgic attitude towards life, the aristocrat had seen been reborn once again and his mind was filled with color. A bright orange and a grey picture of life eased his pain and calmed his mind enough to feel the brush in his hand. A pencil and paper was his script, he wrote the last of his youthful days of old as a memoir to the world, that Mr. Vyle Karter was an artist till his death.
http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/ISI/E276~Blue-II-c-1961-Posters.jpg
Joan Miro's Blue 2
A bleak night, no happy dreamer am I just a mere observer of the world of men. I walk with change as the world spins and the evolution of the greatest creation take pride in their own achievements. I pity the lot of them, they do not see the steps they have taken and the path already trodden, the sacrifices made to pave this new era of humanity, a path to self destruction. I see promise and hope in the many few whose minds reside out of this worldly tether and sees the big picture in the gallery of yeux curieux. An artist to stray from technology and shy away into a place of color and imagination. A man by the name of Mr. Vyle Karter.
A bright and colorful morning for a dose of surreal observation to a man of little status but whose hands boast of expression and form. A sleepy disposition but a readiness to work was Mr. Karter's style, no time for rest when there was paintings to inspire and people to admire them. Empty paint tubes scattered all over the floor, a by product canvas of a violent expressionist, this was no issue as he nimbly stepped over them and hurried off to freshen up for the day ahead. A look into the mirror reflected the mask behind the beauty, the only image of Mr. Karter that he didn't like. He wasn't handsome but borderline average at best, a humility that followed his physique and averted his eyes from any passerby that crossed his path.
http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/PF_New%5C422007/2729331~Untitled-Watercolor-c-1923-Posters.jpg
Wassily Kadinsky
A brush in one hand and a tasteful palette in the other, his poise before an empty canvas was the opening scene of this dramatic play. The brush work and the caress of the paint was almost as tender as to a loved one. The strong feelings were merciless slashes while the soft toners edge with delicate lines. At last, the curtains close and the empty paint tubes laid to rest on the floor as the creator steps back to admire something new and unique, a piece of the artist himself captured in a timeless symbol for others to judge themselves against. Such accomplishment was the only pride that Mr. Karter ever accepted and on a rare occasion like this, a real work of art was born.
http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/PF_NEW%5C09_14_2005_A/PF_1232514~Convergence-Posters.jpg
Jackson Pollock's Convergence
To sell his paintings were a heartbreaking affair but, a lifestyle demands maintenance and this was his means to earn his just rewards. Money, Mr. Karter looked at it at arm's length. Such a master to many, with powers greater than the will of man and the ability to command respect and authority. An insult indeed, but its necessity was only due to requirement to survive as simplicity was a luxury that Mr. Karter enjoyed more than anything. To be able to sit and look at the flaming orange sky light up the evening skyline with the dark grey of industry clash with the surreal picture of life. Such things are unheard of in the short sighted eyes of the twenty first century. Walking away from auction houses, arms considerably lighter and swinging, the sense of emptiness always filled Vyle and he looked up at the sky and it reminded him that each sunrise is unique as is each painting, but its value is only as much as its admirers that take the time to stop and look at it.
Another day without a messy brush or an emptied tube, time was passing Vyle without care and he had adopted the same attitude towards it. He took time instead to take evenings walks, see a motion picture at the local theater or sit in the park and look at the different strangers that passed him by. What has he been missing all those years he would wonder, what is there besides the subtlety and intricate designs of paintings and art. Those little outings over the weeks after he sold his last painting, had brought inspiration to Vyle, a feeling of freedom and yet confinement without any human interaction. Women passed by with slow steps and gentle whispers, he yearned to talk to them and learn about their different ways of life but his appearance was not one of vanity but of humble backgrounds. He returned each night to his apartment in the city and waited for time to change his mind.
Depression and uncontrolled emotions caused him to become ill and weak. His appearance had changed dramatically over the months of being shut away in his apartment, sometimes going days without eating anything at all. His resumed artistic creations were different from the others, charcoal and dark oil paints were staining his canvases instead of the colorful images he adorned so long ago. Paintings of women he had seen, nights he spent locked away in his room haunted his mind and crippled his hands. No one came, no one ever did. A once promising artist had been seduced by humanity and has fallen from the ranks of the artisans.
http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/PF%5C522004/PF_1097952~Strahlenlinien-Posters.jpg
Wassily Kadinsky's Strahlenlinien
Years had passed and money squandered, Vyle Karter a once renown artist from the big city had been forgotten by his loyal fans. Withered by neglect and depression, Vyle was dying and there was nothing that could be done since the sickness had gripped his body for so long. A now retiring expressionist lay in a mere hospital bed in his prime, with nothing to of his life's achievements but empty paint tubes and old stains on the walls and floor of his dilapidated apartment. Vyle opened his eyes and saw on the dank walls of his ward, was his first painting that he had ever sold. The lines, the color it was too much to look at. A remembrance of an old age of carefree living and a nostalgic attitude towards life, the aristocrat had seen been reborn once again and his mind was filled with color. A bright orange and a grey picture of life eased his pain and calmed his mind enough to feel the brush in his hand. A pencil and paper was his script, he wrote the last of his youthful days of old as a memoir to the world, that Mr. Vyle Karter was an artist till his death.
http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/ISI/E276~Blue-II-c-1961-Posters.jpg
Joan Miro's Blue 2