tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010988349898088582024-03-13T13:20:53.689-07:00and thingsImogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-39938496435936975902012-01-01T13:14:00.000-08:002012-01-01T13:16:59.311-08:00in the infinity of space<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_g5Rlnx2NTA/TwDNI-jWk8I/AAAAAAAAAKM/O5YhKPQjKfI/s1600/watercolourexperiment.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 189px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_g5Rlnx2NTA/TwDNI-jWk8I/AAAAAAAAAKM/O5YhKPQjKfI/s320/watercolourexperiment.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692775483110233026" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o6NN_7UbvXk/TwDM8XQyeJI/AAAAAAAAAKA/z4xk-OeTjIQ/s1600/watercolour2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 182px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o6NN_7UbvXk/TwDM8XQyeJI/AAAAAAAAAKA/z4xk-OeTjIQ/s320/watercolour2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692775266404956306" /></a>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-88171385833560554342011-10-31T11:20:00.001-07:002011-10-31T11:21:30.222-07:00Space and dust #2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C2YGU9dWQho/Tq7nI9NKHYI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/OxOTFm-kZuA/s1600/DSCF0308.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C2YGU9dWQho/Tq7nI9NKHYI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/OxOTFm-kZuA/s320/DSCF0308.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669723121960754562" border="0" /></a>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-35988564327487602892011-10-23T17:13:00.001-07:002011-10-23T17:13:51.365-07:00Space and dust<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-af_rUutx2mE/TqStvB6zzSI/AAAAAAAAAJo/6t_ZMlEUoi8/s1600/DSCF0301.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 218px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-af_rUutx2mE/TqStvB6zzSI/AAAAAAAAAJo/6t_ZMlEUoi8/s320/DSCF0301.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666845254619483426" border="0" /></a>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-79509957774278882212011-09-16T08:02:00.000-07:002011-09-18T04:40:57.707-07:00air earth water<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uOm9WGUYSWQ/TnNlZhgn0tI/AAAAAAAAAJg/rVvAhuge-Zg/s1600/sc01fcba0e.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 142px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uOm9WGUYSWQ/TnNlZhgn0tI/AAAAAAAAAJg/rVvAhuge-Zg/s320/sc01fcba0e.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652973446446437074" border="0" /></a>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-91227892665728012502011-08-26T13:46:00.000-07:002011-08-26T13:49:11.138-07:00Peacock Coloured<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-i2BDMm1AyQ4/TlgGlvEmOtI/AAAAAAAAAJY/JcRCmMIgmGQ/s1600/DSC_0824.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-i2BDMm1AyQ4/TlgGlvEmOtI/AAAAAAAAAJY/JcRCmMIgmGQ/s320/DSC_0824.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645269378269592274" border="0" /></a>
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<br />Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-68877517130215125772011-07-22T07:08:00.000-07:002011-07-22T07:09:32.986-07:00Peacock<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bItWqw3fcLo/TimEmL494uI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/hpMUh43oBjc/s1600/DSC_0805.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bItWqw3fcLo/TimEmL494uI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/hpMUh43oBjc/s320/DSC_0805.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632178600565138146" border="0" /></a>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-58541636509284495232011-07-14T13:50:00.000-07:002011-07-14T13:52:22.261-07:00fox<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sR05RXUrmKs/Th9W9YX75DI/AAAAAAAAAJI/6sMimY-0e78/s1600/foxtrot.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sR05RXUrmKs/Th9W9YX75DI/AAAAAAAAAJI/6sMimY-0e78/s320/foxtrot.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629313671751263282" /></a>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-62915122666515356662011-07-12T08:32:00.000-07:002011-07-12T08:35:05.986-07:00got yo hair did?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oc3mRzcWLkM/ThxpjibWmeI/AAAAAAAAAJA/uusyvFLV6Jw/s1600/sc0055a0dc.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 273px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oc3mRzcWLkM/ThxpjibWmeI/AAAAAAAAAJA/uusyvFLV6Jw/s320/sc0055a0dc.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628489693564148194" border="0" /></a>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-18001599923398372642011-07-08T12:20:00.001-07:002011-07-08T12:21:39.783-07:00hydrangaes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IhaTyaVkbbw/ThdYrpEB0VI/AAAAAAAAAI4/Npfc_yT8I_w/s1600/DSC_0797.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 253px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IhaTyaVkbbw/ThdYrpEB0VI/AAAAAAAAAI4/Npfc_yT8I_w/s320/DSC_0797.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627063766203093330" border="0" /></a>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-36152670173199190452011-06-12T12:55:00.000-07:002011-06-12T13:02:37.319-07:00if you look the right way, you can see the whole world is a garden....<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a96dRVF2vWQ/TfUbGo6zBPI/AAAAAAAAAIw/W798-0QnKI8/s1600/DSC_0648.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 235px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a96dRVF2vWQ/TfUbGo6zBPI/AAAAAAAAAIw/W798-0QnKI8/s320/DSC_0648.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617425911091758322" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h1rlVr076X8/TfUab22Q8kI/AAAAAAAAAIo/AsO6Xw0OIlY/s1600/DSC_0663.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 262px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h1rlVr076X8/TfUab22Q8kI/AAAAAAAAAIo/AsO6Xw0OIlY/s320/DSC_0663.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617425176096469570" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p0mE7j-VYDU/TfUaHQHGXLI/AAAAAAAAAIg/HEsXB4ZkWmw/s1600/DSC_0661.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p0mE7j-VYDU/TfUaHQHGXLI/AAAAAAAAAIg/HEsXB4ZkWmw/s320/DSC_0661.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617424822100712626" border="0" /></a>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-50691424246490910892011-06-06T16:04:00.000-07:002011-06-06T16:08:20.750-07:00show me, please show me the way in...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aco17HK6eoo/Te1dQxuP3-I/AAAAAAAAAIQ/kJjNMty2a4Q/s1600/DSC_0627.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 223px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aco17HK6eoo/Te1dQxuP3-I/AAAAAAAAAIQ/kJjNMty2a4Q/s320/DSC_0627.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615246853207482338" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WrRE5GbNR7c/Te1dq239eUI/AAAAAAAAAIY/5uNZYguSyf4/s1600/DSC_0628.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 219px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WrRE5GbNR7c/Te1dq239eUI/AAAAAAAAAIY/5uNZYguSyf4/s320/DSC_0628.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615247301266995522" border="0" /></a><br /><p>Artist book in progress. Front and back cover.</p> <p>Based on The Secret Garden.</p><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-44478192933222178712011-05-11T15:07:00.000-07:002011-05-13T13:34:22.106-07:00one hand holding<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rwUs0iEjT4A/TcsIVdpFcMI/AAAAAAAAAIE/C3RcW62jezg/s1600/DSCF0252.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rwUs0iEjT4A/TcsIVdpFcMI/AAAAAAAAAIE/C3RcW62jezg/s320/DSCF0252.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605583326019940546" border="0" /></a>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-90818449327373448202011-05-09T11:15:00.000-07:002011-05-09T11:18:38.747-07:00Robin EleyVideo:::<br /><br /><a href="http://vimeo.com/22074927">The Process of Plastic </a><br /><br />Photo realistic painter, showing you how it's done.<br /><br />Here is his website.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.robineley.com/">Robinnnn</a><br /><br />Enjoy!Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-53789395444067269392011-04-25T10:35:00.000-07:002011-04-25T10:39:12.734-07:00aluminiumtwo songs off of the album "aluminium"<br />Its an orchestral reworking of the White Stripes done by Joby Talbot.<br />worth a checking out.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hwbkUTzf7bs">Aluminum</a><br /><br />and<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V7gNs2sTEkM&feature=related">The Hardest Button to Button</a><br /><br />Enjoy!Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-22330895066966224212011-04-19T17:27:00.001-07:002011-04-19T17:27:45.567-07:00A short story by an author<h1><span style="font-size:85%;">Haruki Murakami: On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning</span></h1> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.<br /> </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?" </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">"Not really." </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">"Your favorite type, then?" </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts." </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">"Strange." </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">"Yeah. Strange." </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?" </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">"Nah. Just passed her on the street." </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">How can I approach her? What should I say? </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?" </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?" </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that? </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me." </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd. <br /> <br /> </span> </p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?" <br /> <br /> </span> </p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me." </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream." </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily? </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?" </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do." </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew: </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">She is the 100% perfect girl for me.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">He is the 100% perfect boy for me. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">A sad story, don't you think? <br /> <br /> </span> </p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her. </span></p>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-23384643968194496252011-04-01T06:39:00.001-07:002011-04-01T06:42:10.574-07:00show me your bones<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ThiUAYsoIUI/TZXV6qB-mNI/AAAAAAAAAH8/rwDvUsxSWdM/s1600/DSC_0010.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 230px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ThiUAYsoIUI/TZXV6qB-mNI/AAAAAAAAAH8/rwDvUsxSWdM/s320/DSC_0010.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590609716142053586" border="0" /></a>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-31204734505639076512011-04-01T06:35:00.000-07:002011-04-01T06:38:37.344-07:00you're my favourite cubism dream<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M5Ip71dhz-U/TZXVOMrSesI/AAAAAAAAAH0/8TKqKHmFBL4/s1600/DSC_0002.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M5Ip71dhz-U/TZXVOMrSesI/AAAAAAAAAH0/8TKqKHmFBL4/s320/DSC_0002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590608952348015298" border="0" /></a>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-70577546785285998882011-03-21T09:29:00.001-07:002011-03-21T11:56:14.515-07:00we are nowhere and it is now.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HGNScZpTxOE/TYd8-nJRjVI/AAAAAAAAAHs/UqexvFufScA/s1600/wrnaitnfortune.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HGNScZpTxOE/TYd8-nJRjVI/AAAAAAAAAHs/UqexvFufScA/s320/wrnaitnfortune.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586571277878005074" border="0" /></a>I organised an exhibition entitled "We Are Nowhere and it is Now" at the Walcot Chapel in Bath. It is a beautiful space and full of light. Here is a photo of the piece that I did. They had two fireplaces so thought I would do a piece that could incorporate and work with the space.<br /><br />Here I have done origami fortune tellers (previous) and dipped them in wax so when they light shines through they appear transparent.<br />The idea behind the work is looking how light travels through different densities.<br /><br />I will write up a full report with more photos and info of the wonderful people involved.<br /><br />-photo by Sophie Kemp.Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-38240862014946368192011-03-02T10:34:00.001-08:002011-03-02T10:52:49.866-08:00volunteer's dilemma<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5FBRjLMQPK8/TW6NyuvjEOI/AAAAAAAAAHk/m6g06adG4nQ/s1600/DSCF0199.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 171px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5FBRjLMQPK8/TW6NyuvjEOI/AAAAAAAAAHk/m6g06adG4nQ/s320/DSCF0199.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579552891039060194" border="0" /></a><br /><p>Is considered the hardest word to translate and also the most succinct.</p> <p>From the Yaghan language of Tierra del Feugo it means:</p><p> "a look shared by two people, each wishing that the other will initiate something that they both desire but that neither wants to start.”</p>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-26369883547748973312011-02-22T04:57:00.000-08:002011-02-22T05:00:50.206-08:00Subtitled exhibition<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DDEJXCKFlPA/TWOyuJW9dII/AAAAAAAAAHc/COGgG_rNgxU/s1600/subtitledfinal.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 209px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DDEJXCKFlPA/TWOyuJW9dII/AAAAAAAAAHc/COGgG_rNgxU/s320/subtitledfinal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576497269470753922" border="0" /></a>There is going to be two exhibitions at the Walcot chapel starting Tuesday 8th March-12th.<br />Please come along for the first one to see Fine Art students works based on foreign themes.Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-75879857760983211992011-02-15T09:53:00.000-08:002011-02-15T10:21:21.259-08:00conversation unsaid<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XjB9REMbEu0/TVq92-ShSDI/AAAAAAAAAHU/NVajWHx9YIc/s1600/DSC_0302.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 258px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XjB9REMbEu0/TVq92-ShSDI/AAAAAAAAAHU/NVajWHx9YIc/s320/DSC_0302.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573976240955672626" border="0" /></a><br />two friends.<br />new project looking at hand gestures and the psychology behind them and so what you can get from this to give an idea about their character. Going to do more, each one with a different meaning.Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-18637992753131718082011-02-11T12:38:00.000-08:002011-02-11T12:40:21.009-08:00your future in rows.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9HT-627j2OA/TVWehKJ1eSI/AAAAAAAAAHM/OIJSTz1qCkQ/s1600/DSC_0223.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9HT-627j2OA/TVWehKJ1eSI/AAAAAAAAAHM/OIJSTz1qCkQ/s320/DSC_0223.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572534406439336226" border="0" /></a>better photo.Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-1052111568438353512011-02-01T12:30:00.000-08:002011-02-01T12:31:11.767-08:00O<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CYXkdr-07Nw/TUhtd8Bv5tI/AAAAAAAAAHA/N3Qzzl59dcQ/s1600/DSCF0178.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 314px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CYXkdr-07Nw/TUhtd8Bv5tI/AAAAAAAAAHA/N3Qzzl59dcQ/s320/DSCF0178.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568821300340713170" border="0" /></a>Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-56230075267408515682011-02-01T08:10:00.001-08:002011-02-01T08:12:53.613-08:00T<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CYXkdr-07Nw/TUgwwJrn7iI/AAAAAAAAAGw/ICp5OCr_WU8/s1600/DSCF0176.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 265px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CYXkdr-07Nw/TUgwwJrn7iI/AAAAAAAAAGw/ICp5OCr_WU8/s320/DSCF0176.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568754543034363426" border="0" /></a> TImogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-801098834989808858.post-82548322429525312762011-01-31T17:46:00.000-08:002011-01-31T17:47:47.434-08:00tell me my future<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CYXkdr-07Nw/TUdl_a_vJ2I/AAAAAAAAAGo/xBf-hvWO9oM/s1600/DSCF0163.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CYXkdr-07Nw/TUdl_a_vJ2I/AAAAAAAAAGo/xBf-hvWO9oM/s320/DSCF0163.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568531604519724898" border="0" /></a>origami fortune tellers lit from behind. First experiment, think I am going to develop this with better lighting and loads more paper folding.Imogen Coulterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14984898982161343767noreply@blogger.com0