Russian-born artist Irena Koronova creates incredibly luminous landscapes using multiple layers of oil, sand and marble dust.
Double exposure series (so far)
I have more photos but didn’t want to make a huge photoset. So I am entering these photos and a few other of my photos into this contest, I never entered my work into any contests before and the prize seemed well worth my $50 admission fee
If you think I diserve it, please click here to be redirected to my profile for the contest and at the top where it says “Collect me”, please click that! Thats all you must do! And if you could, reblog this post! I would really appreciate this a lot you guys.
(Source: , via ruineshumaines)
Above the Sky by Peter Callesen.
Toast Portraits by Henry Hargreaves.
Painted Dead Trees by Curtis Killorn.
You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.
And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.
And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.
And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly. Amen.
(via bonesandroots)
A well-known scientist (some say it was Bertrand Russell) once gave a public lecture on astronomy. He described how the earth orbits around the sun and how the sun, in turn, orbits around the center of a vast collection of stars called our galaxy. At the end of the lecture, a little old lady at the back of the room got up and said: “What you have told us is rubbish. The world is really a flat plate supported on the back of a giant tortoise.” The scientist gave a superior smile before replying, “What is the tortoise standing on?” “You’re very clever, young man, very clever,” said the old lady. “But it’s turtles all the way down!”
From A Brief History of Time
"Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice."
— F. Scott Fitzgerald (via shesinacoma)
(Source: glassybaby, via aroomfullofbees)
(Source: thrutimeandspace, via swansonsmustache)
"Then nothing else would be stirring — or so it would seem. But gradually her ears would pick out tiny rustlings in the vine nearby, where the grosbeaks were waking. A mourning dove would call unseen from the thicket below — a round, clear, bouncing note, as though a soft ball had been dropped on the lowest key of a xylophone: “Tuuu… tuu tu tu.” Another dove would answer a distance away. They would call again, closer to each other each time; then they would emerge together from the mist, of the mist, gray, graceful, and be off together wing to wing like reflections of each other in a looking glass sky. The red-winged blackbirds would wake all at once, like soldiers to Reveille. They would shake themselves from the bam grove and swing in a glistening pack to settle in the nearby bunchberry vines, where they waited for the mist to lift from the cattails, singing icessantly or drawing the black feathers of their wings and tails slowly through their bills. With the bright scarlet amulets on each shoulder of their black uniforms they always made sure that they were preparing for a review by the king. Then the blue grouse would drum away its kin, and the dowitcher would voice its piercing alarm at seeing the sun. The band-tailed pigeons would call seductively from branch to branch, all with voices like Marlene Dietrich’s. The flickers and sapsuckers would begin knocking the trunks of hemlocks for breakfast… . And after all the other birds were up and about their affairs — even the jay, who would burst each morning from the mist, screeching in a blue rage at these damned early birds who never let a fellow finish his rest — the crows would make their stately entrance. From the tops of the firs they would swoop, laughing with a sort of pitiless amusement at the lesser birds, and circle away in a slow, disorganized flock bound for the mudflats, sometimes leaving her feeling strangely disturbed. Perhaps because they reminded her of the magpies from around her Colorado home — carrion-eaters, lining the rabbit-killing highways, living off death — but she thought there must be more to it than just that. Magpies were, all in all, rather silly birds. The crows, for all their raucous laughter, never seemed silly."
—
Sometimes a Great Notion - Ken Kesey
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Just thought this was so beautifully written.
"…in the three weeks following my vow to pull Hank down, my intentions had cooled down and my heart warmed up, and a family of moths had taken up residence in my suitcase and chewed my slacks and my certainties full of holes."
— Sometimes a Great Notion - Ken Kesey
Canadian geese at Rockwood Conservation Area
