angelicastanislaus-blog

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The Foggy Lakehouse, TUNG LE XUAN

#architecture

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House in Lo Curro, SCHMIDT ARQUITECTOS ASOCIADOS

#architecture

[angelicastanislaus-blog]

The wine tasting complex in Kakheti Georgia, MICHAEL KHACHATURYAN

#architecture

[angelicastanislaus-blog]

Downland Gridshell Building, BURO HAPPOLD, BOXALL SAYER and the GREEN OAK CARPENTARY COMPANY

"The design, engineering and carpentry of the Downland Gridshell is groundbreaking. Yet its gently curving form and natural materials sit beautifully in the surrounding South Downs landscape of the Weald and Downland Open Air Museum in Sussex where the buildings and artefacts of traditional rural life are brought to life."

#Architecture #downlandgridshell

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Water Lilies, CLAUDE MONET

#painting #claudemonet

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MARTIN JOHNSON HEADE

#painting martinjohnsonheade

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‘Love,’ by Ukrainian sculptor ALEXANDER MILOV, features two wire-frame adults sitting back to back with their inner children reaching out to each other from within.

#sculpture #alexandermilov

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The Buffalo Trail, ALBERT BIERSTADT

#painting albertbierstadt

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Among the Sierra, ALBERT BIERSTADT

#painting #albertbierstadt

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Mount Corcoron, ALBERT BIERSTADT

#painting #albertbierstadt

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The Falls of St. Anthony, ALBERT BIERSTADT

#painting #albertbierstadt

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Storm in the Mountains, ALBERT BIERSTADT

#painting #albertbierstadt

[angelicastanislaus-blog]

Tis said, the pipe and lute that charm our ears Derive their melody from rolling spheres; But Faith, o'erpassing speculation's bound, Can see what sweetens every jangled sound. We, who are parts of Adam, heard with him The song of angels and of seraphim. Out memory, though dull and sad, retains Some echo still of those unearthly strains. Oh, music is the meat of all who love, Music uplifts the soul to realms above. The ashes glow, the latent fires increase: We listen and are fed with joy and peace.

Remembered Music, R.A.NICHOLSON

#quote music

[angelicastanislaus-blog]

We push the pen to make you feel the gentle tapping of the falling rain, the stinging burn of the summer sun the heavy heart of despair and pain. We push the pen to make you see the vibrant orange of a monarch wing, the secretive soul hidden in our eyes, the golden sunrise in early morning. We push the pen to make you taste the sweetness of love's first kiss, the bitterness of heartbreaking defeat the richness of pure chocolate bliss. We push the pen to make you hear the clear waters babbling in the brook, the forgotten laughter of our inner child the cracking spine of a brand new book. We push the pen to make you savor the pungent petals of the red rose, the crisp aroma of a tart green apple the autumn air that excites the nose. We each push the pen in different ways with our own tone of voice and mystique, an art form that no other can duplicate, no right or wrong, just wonderfully unique.

We push the pen, KELLY DESCHLER

#quote senses

[angelicastanislaus-blog]

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.    Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.    In time the curtain-edges will grow light.    Till then I see what’s really always there:    Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,    Making all thought impossible but how    And where and when I shall myself die.    Arid interrogation: yet the dread Of dying, and being dead, Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse    —The good not done, the love not given, time    Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because    An only life can take so long to climb Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;    But at the total emptiness for ever, The sure extinction that we travel to And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,    Not to be anywhere, And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true. This is a special way of being afraid No trick dispels. Religion used to try, That vast moth-eaten musical brocade Created to pretend we never die, And specious stuff that says No rational being Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound,    No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,    Nothing to love or link with, The anaesthetic from which none come round. And so it stays just on the edge of vision,    A small unfocused blur, a standing chill    That slows each impulse down to indecision.    Most things may never happen: this one will,    And realisation of it rages out In furnace-fear when we are caught without    People or drink. Courage is no good: It means not scaring others. Being brave    Lets no one off the grave. Death is no different whined at than withstood. Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.    It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,    Have always known, know that we can’t escape,    Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring    In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun. Work has to be done. Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

Aubade, PHILIP LARKIN

#philiplarkin #quote