The Hermitage

Rima Staines is an artist using paint, wood, word,
music, animation, puppetry & story to attempt to build a gate
through the hedge between the worlds.

This will be a scrapbook of ideas, visuals to inspire,
and snippets from my own journey.

www.rimastaines.com
theplumtree:

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theplumtree:

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yama-bato:

Tavik František Šimon (T.F.       Šimon)
Nocturne in Auray,Brittany
image © Tavik František Šimon [1877-1942]
Nocturne in Auray,Brittany/ visipix.dynalias.com

yama-bato:

Tavik František Šimon (T.F. Šimon)

Nocturne in Auray,Brittany

image © Tavik František Šimon [1877-1942]

Nocturne in Auray,Brittany/ visipix.dynalias.com

The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him…a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create…so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless creating.

Pearl Buck
(via lexicology) (via tobia)

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

- e e cummings

3wings:

Konstantin Kalynovych

3wings:

Konstantin Kalynovych