On January 1st, I challenged everyone in the deviantART community to suggest a lot of Daily Deviations. I did this for two main reasons: A) `thorns
told people to put up or shut up
and I decided to listen; B) I was tired of hearing people complain about supposed favoritism surrounding whose DD suggestions are accepted by the CVs.
Well, you all rose to the challenge beautifully. Over 200 suggestions
were sent into the CVs by the people that participated in my little challenge. The first featured work pieces that received DDs
, the second featured one half of the rest of the suggestions
and this article features the last half of the suggestions.
But first, our winners!
More than 40 people noted me with their suggestions in January and each suggestion earned them one entry into the drawing. Our top three suggesters were LadyofGaerdon
, and MaddalinaMocanu
. Please give these ladies a round of applause!
I entered all of the names into a list at random.org and randomized the list ten times, picking the top name the first time, the second name the second time, and on and on. Here are the results:LadyofGaerdon
, and Smirtouille
,all win 50
Remember - if you participate in all 12 challenges throughout this project you'll be entered into a drawing at the end of the year for a 1-year premium membership! So make sure to check out February's Challenge: Critique
Ode to a Human NightingaleWhen Taylor & Hessey closed for the day, drawing down the blinds on their shop window, no one noticed a young man snatching one of the books from the shelf and secreting it in his great coat. Nor did they notice him slip out the back door into an alleyway filled with the char and tar of London, his eyes swivelling to both sides. Fleet St was busy; the horses trotted down the road with carriages bouncing on the most delicate of axles whilst rank sweat and horse manure intertwined in a stench that overpowered the scent of the evening breeze. Everyone was shouting, their voices tussling with each other as the street groaned under hundreds of feet and hooves; oh indeed for a moment of silence in this hideous city!
"Thruppence for a linnet, sir!" shouted a bird hawker at the young man's side as he sidled down the side of the street, careful to draw the coat more tightly about him. Another voice soon assaulted the first and the young man turned briefly to a grubby boy holding a cage half cov
YellowMy parents bought a little two-bedroom house when they first got married. It was run down, falling apart, but most importantly: cheap.
Two years later, my mother fell pregnant with me. She immediately abandoned her job for some plaster and paint and set about decorating the untouched spare room. She splashed pastel yellow across the walls, replaced the dingy carpet and kitted out the room with furniture.
Sixteen years after my birth, and the yellow paint is flaking off the walls revealing the kiwi green beneath. I can peel back the corners of the carpet to reveal the worn underlay and half rotten floorboards. I can examine the fringe of my cream curtains where the bright yellow hasn't been bleached by the sun. The room is, more or less, unchanged. It has merely lost its sheen, much like the inhabitant of it.
I remained an only child; filling my days with quiet solitary games and elaborate stories whispered under my breath. My isolation only increased as I grew too big for the room that
Dirge I- The Sun Said to ChicagoThe Sun said to Chicago,
"Oh land of sad, sad stone-"
That is all I heard, as the radiance
Was devoured by the continuingcloud
The sun does not shine in Chicago.
I saw many faces here
Who would've been sad,
But they were empty instead.
I saw two silvery ghosts, deer,
Convene in an empty lot.
They conversed, in Silvan tongues,
"Shall we leave then?"
"Yes- the grass is losing here.
The trees are dead, the stones are
To the hands of the empty."
The city's metro wurms squirm;
They are infesting the ground.
They scream, unlike the silent dying
Of Novum Eboracum, Screaming
They are emerging, speeding toward
The stable of the planes and back.
I am eight years old.I am eight years old.
My lips are perfectly pink. They don't need to look glossy or tinted redder. My cheeks don't need this, either. My eyes stand out well enough on their own without being lined with black paint. The mascara weighs on my lashes and makes me tired and itchy. This shit on my eyelids shouldn't be there, either.
That was a bad word. I am afraid to say bad words, but I've got a few in my head. My friend told me that the word "bitch" means "female dog," but I think she's wrong. I don't think I've ever heard it used in this context. Actually, I think it's a word for people like you. I say this to you with my eyes. You threaten me because you hear me loud and clear.
Every other weekend, I have to sit here and endure as you put this shit on my face. But that's not why you're a bitch. That's why you're an idiot. What makes you a bitch is the fact that you expect me to be silent and still every time your hand slips and the curling iron burns the top of my ear, or you
Philosophy of Art, Ae....Philosophy of art, aesthetics and creativity Major essay Nietzsche, Tolstoy & Bell
The elusive nature of artistic, aesthetic, and creative endeavor has always been integral to philosophical debate. Three of the principal philosophers to have tackled these subjects are Friedrich Nietzsche, Leo N. Tolstoy and Clive Bell. Each presents a distinctly individual approach to these seemingly intangible areas of discussion. In doing so, they deal with questions regarding how art is defined, what its origin and functions are, what beauty is, and what value art possesses. Nietzsche contends that art contains two core distinctions; great art works draw on both intellect, and spontaneity. Conversely, Tolstoy references colour, sound, and movement as the fundamentals in defining art; art is a language, and these elements are its essential components. Bells argument revolves around what he calls Significant Form. According to this definition, an artwork can be qualifie
The Imperfection of Style 1. Introduction
When you sit down to read a piece written by Baudelaire you do not expect Dickinson sentimentality, nor a Shakespearean wit or Poe's possessiveness with phonetically eeriness. You do expect a Baudelaire experience. But what is a Baudelaire experience? What makes Baudelaire a Baudelaire in comparison with Poe - is it the tonality, details, sentiment, or maybe the vocabulary, sentence construct or themes; Might it be the concepts, or maybe a certain point of view or an angle? Can you create your own style by analytical and critical thinking, learning the hypothetical curve and scale of those degrees, or by comparing different styles and reaching a sort of virginity in style, that which is uniquely you. Who is that which you describe through your style if not a human being, the imperfect creature of them all, and can we, by describing the imperfect, reach perfection?
The chase for Perfection in the creative and artistic world became an
Floating AloneCan they really see me?
I feel like a ghost, swooping silently across the streets. I pass through them, unnoticed.
The days are long and repetitive, and often finish like this. School is tragically monotonous and no one seems to notice me. The machine at the front of the class makes noises and passes out sheets. The other students, the other machines; they interact with it, asking questions and receiving answers, inputting their completed work and occasionally pushing its buttons. But not me. I complete the tasks but the sheet passes through my hands, onto the floor to be crushed and forgotten. My hand drifts up and I wail like a banshee for attention, but the machines don't register my ethereal howls. I even try to push the buttons; "beep, beep, boop, bop! Look at me! I can sing! I can dance! I can float."
Eventually, they find the work. They detect a strange, white noise in their sensors and react, giving me a mechanical, pre-written answer.
"DO THE W
I heard 'apart', were you talking about legs?I don't understand
Can you say that again?
Except this time
Without any clothes on
Of Kings and CartographersWe can overhear the whispered conversations
From across the busy street
Strewn with the bit-off ends of storms and cons
That they cling to so desperately
The flooded street which ferries
The discarded briefcases and sins
Through the maze of veins and gateways
The sacred street which carries
Precious life blood through the veins and gateways
Forking off to Heaven and Hell
Now, what about you?
There you are, brushing shoulders
With the coated figures marching to
The drums of war on judgment day
The meek, the wounded, the soulless
And there you are, struggling to earn your place in line
We can overhear the words exchanged
By rulers and brokers and lenders
But can't make out the exact words
They are unclear, spoken from behind a steel door
But the information cannot be missed
Look around, someone among us doesn't belong
Find the Saint and cast him out
Then go right on worrying
Worrying about the burnt-out remains
Of storms and cons, storms and triumphs
Worrying about losing cou
avalanche.The Ogre rises up among its brother and sister peaks, the Monk and the Virgin, a craggy limestone buttress looming above most of the north-eastern part of the Bernese Alps.
The Eiger: 13,042 feet of sheer rock, cracks and treacherous ice-fields.
Many attempts to scale this uncompromising weather-battered mountain have been made over the years, but successful attempts didn't begin until 1938, with the brave perseverance of a team of four German climbers. As a twenty-year-old eager climber myself, I knew all the facts. The windswept North Face (Nordwand) was the height of all climbing careers when I'd been growing up. 1952 - the great year of the Eiger. In that year, twenty men made attempts on just the Mordwand - 'murderous wall' - alone, with eighteen of them making it to the triumphant peak. It was the year in which it seemed the hoodoo of the mighty Ogre was broken.
To a young Viennese piano-tuner, whose precise and delicate profession gave way to an intense, vigorous h
The FountainThere were sixteen tall windows. She'd counted them over and over when she was small, her chubby finger outstretched as she spun in tiny circles. Eight walls, sixteen windows, thirty-two black curtainsthe arithmetic of her childhood.
"Eight window seats, Daddy. Eight buttons on eachsixty-four. I counted."
The fountain stood dry and dead-center in the middle of the black and white tiles. Eight sides, eight lion-mouth spouts. Sixteen limestone mermaids poised gracefully around the edge. Four thousand and ninety-six blue tiles. Five hundred and twelve white.
And two doors. Always the two doors, huge and solid and radiating a sense of looming disdain. The rough oak had bitten her hands and it bit them now, when she pressed her palms against it. The doors eased open like wings outstretching, coming to rest against stone doorstops.
Her boots clicked against the marble flooring as she advanced, each click reverberating through the silent room. A mute ghost of a man stood in
Death of a reasonInsusceptible, he lived
during the early hours of
eleven to four.
he was stubborn- he knew how to
treat a lady well but
realised waiting on people
wasn't an obligation.
I heard he found reconcilation
in chasing ghosts and
loving brittle things
he could not grasp.
I loved him from the day he left.
Absence fosters such
living hand to mouth on
our theoretical timezones,
two-liner niceties draw static-
I'm left to conversations with dial tones.
He was a missing thumb and forefinger,
He was a romance of misguided placebos.
He was a riot of compromised words,
He was a prayer spat out across fingers.
He was a consonant, unpronouncable,
a compulsion that never existed-
He was a bowler hat, framed between two rails.
Little Golden BirdYou're out for a walk on a beautiful, sunny afternoon, just doing whatever it is you like to do when you're out for a walk, when you find a tiny yellow bird sitting alone on the ground. Maybe you pity the little thing, maybe you want to know what it's doing there all by itself. Whatever the reason, you decide to pick it up. The little yellow bird is cold and limp in your hands. Maybe it's somehow injured itself, or maybe it was out having its own little walk in the sun and got lost. So you hold it close and stroke its feathers to warm it up. The little bird seems to like you, so you take it home to live with you. You feed it and bathe it and nurture it for awhile, then it seems to want nothing more than to sit on your shoulder and have you take it along wherever you go. It seems happy, and its feathers have taken on a brilliant golden hue, like the sun on a spring day. You let the little golden bird perch on your shoulder, and you do end up taking it everywhere with you. Soon, the litt
milky waywe're buying ink and re
tracing our footsteps on
the icy roads that might
teach us how to come
home (when we are
we'll search for the right
colors to stain our hands with
because the milky way was
never stronger than our
glass fingernails, and we
could make shapes in the
fabric of darkness better
than constellations ever
did, and something occurs
to me when we
are staring at the
galaxy of our fingers inter-
twining, we are bigger than
solar systems and broken
space shuttles, more
vast even than the slow
light fixtures and
bits of justice.
strawberriesdrops of rain explode
into colors on your outstretched hands,
blossoming as roses
like bright ripe strawberries.
and when you roam enchanted gardens,
nothing is ever as it seems
one moment a blade of grass
and the next one of many feathers
on the wing of a bird
about to take flight.
no matter how you try
gravity is wiser,
and you are bound to come down from the clouds.
millions of heartbeats like yours
all search for the same thing
and will find each other someday.
bulletproofspiders stitch me a softer melody
as they knit back up my veins;
i feel their gossamer threads
sink into my vessels,
small ships in my blood
as they set out for sea.
i do not know which home
is now meant for me.
i am a back to the door,
so that i do not fall,
into anything endless.
lying about in the dark,
we are new blooms;
humans like flowers
as we find our new roots
in new soil
and hope to find love.
the comfort of lavender
city air like projections,
on the world's white walls,
it billows under my skirts
and i feel that, now,
The secret life
of elm and oak
and thin white poplars -
on a winter night,
grazing the moon
like tapers in December.
I smell earth -
peat and cedar
and the indulgent bulge
crafting the air
like a smith
lost in his work.
Chestnuts bear an offering
and the yearning pall
of pine scents the sky
till it's thick with resin.
And they gather
with boughs and limbs
bent like priests at play,
roots tight as ancient drums
to ruminate on stories,
sinewed in fragrant bark
making merry where
the green bends back
2 + 2 = 5? ~~~
so you ask me to play
the number game with
reciprocal, you say,
your eyes. should i let
myself become numb,
Suggested Digital Art
Suggested Traditional Art
To everyone who participated and promoted - a very big thank you! And to our wonderful Community Volunteers who help feature beautiful work in the community - your dedication and time are most sincerely appreciated.
I hope that everyone will continue to suggest work for Daily Deviations because it makes the work for CVs much easier. Plus, it is a a lot of fun!FAQ #61: What is a Daily Deviation? FAQ #18: Who selects Daily Deviations and how are they chosen?FAQ #84: What are the Core Values of the Community Relations Department?