Mystical Ocean Essays - English-language Films,

Mystical Ocean Sarah stood at the top of the cliff, her toes curled around the edge of the jagged rocks. She glanced briefly down towards the circular, blue pool, which appeared to be the size of a laundry bucket from this height. She knew from experience that if she hesitated, paused to gather courage, it would only make it harder to take the step into space. She drew in a deep breath, counted to herself, "One, two, three" and placed her life in the hands of gravity. As she descended, the magical power and speed of falling through the sunlight and then plunging into the water exhilarated her. It was always the same and yet the rush she experienced, felt as thrilling as the first time. As she broke the surface of the water, any remaining oxygen escaped from her lungs. Upon surfacing, she would give her golden, brown hair a shake and gasp for air, while trying to cope with the adrenalin that bolted through her veins. She awoke from this pleasant reflection with a grin on her face. It wasn't until she began to regain full consciousness that the sinister fingers of her dreadful disease reached around her chest and began to squeeze. The daily shock of realisation confronted her. Every morning she had to face the horrific facts, again and again and again. Lying back in her bed, she listened to the small birds whistling cheerfully outside. She couldn't help reminding herself of how pointless and irrational it was to resent the native birds, which sat on the dry, summer twigs. Finally, she could not bear to listen to them any more. They could dance so freely, then stretch their wings and fly away. Sarah's thoughts were disturbed by her mother's loud entrance to the room. As always she was trying her absolute best to sound cheerful and indirectly supportive. "How are you feeling?" she inquired compassionately. "Simply fantastic!" Sarah replied sarcastically. Her mother attempted to ignore the bitter remark but was visibly affected by Sarah's recent cynical attitude. Sarah, although noticing her mother's discomfort refused to make eye contact or soften her harsh comments. "How would you feel lying in this bed day after day?" she asked angrily. "I could take you for a walk in your chair along the beach later, if you want" her mother offered encouragingly. "I've told you, I hate that chair and when are you going to get ithe damn thing out of my room", shouted Sarah. She stared accusingly at her mother and then at the dull, silver wheelchair, sitting beside her bed. Sarah hated that chair, refusing to use it and resented her mother for Vbos No. 97194015 T leaving it in her room. "Get it out!" Sarah roared once again. Despondently Sarah's mother turned and wheeled the chair out of her room. Silently Sarah's nurse entered the room. A small Asian woman, she rarely if ever spoke. Slowly she fed Sarah breakfast; spoon-fed like a child. Frustration and anger grew within Sarah, as the most mundane tasks were now beyond her capabilities. As the nurse gently bathed Sarah's legs, she wistfully remembered when she had full use of her limbs. Tanned, defined, strong, her legs were an object of desire. Now they were little more than two thin, brittle twigs. She envied her nurse as she moved gracefully through the room. Meticulously prepared Sarah's medication, ensuring each duty was performed to the greatest detail, before leaving as swiftly as she'd entered, offering Sarah only a shy, unsure, half-smile. Through her balcony window, Sarah witnessed the huge waves crash into the jagged rocks below and listened in silence to the mysteriously wild, roar of the ocean. The bitter taste of medication lingered in her mouth, while the harsh wind picked up the sand, swirling it in the air, causing the last of the tourists to scurry from the sand. The beach was now desolate and bare, looked more like a desert. As the sun slowly began to hide behind the clouds, the once golden sand turned to a murky gray, while the incoming tide swallowed all before it. The shadow of darkness spread quickly across the deep, endless ocean, hiding all within life and the life of Sarah's.

Warhol essays

Warhol essays This is an image from Andy Warhol. When this was displayed in 1962, it was in a nearby gallery with a sign that said, Get the real thing for 29 cents. Not to forget the humor, the underlining thing is that Warhols work threatened the concept of art as serious and transcendent: artist intentions devoid of satire seemed as cheerfully vacuous as his subject matter. With this one project, Andy changed art in a new way. Although it could be thought of as vapid, I think it was a smart move on the artist, because he was, as many great artists do, taking down the structure of art and making people think about what art is again. Pop arts celebration of the banal and its unapologetic dismissal of higher aims soon lost their original shock value, yet Andy, its best known person, remained on top throughout his lifetime. Born in Pennsylvania in 1930 with the name Andrew Warhola, he graduated college from the Carnegie Institute of Technology in 1949. He then moved to New York City where he became involved in commercial art and won several prizes. His development in fine art began with wry, delicate drawings and culminated in the hard-hitting graphic style that became a huge success. He had a solo show in New Yorks Stable Gallery in 1962 and it brought him instant fame. In his studio he mass-produced many of the peaces that we see today. The pop artist not only depicted mass products but he also wanted to mass-produce his own works of pop art. Consequently he founded The Factory in 1962. It was an art studio where he employed in a rather chaotic way "art workers" to mass produce mainly prints and posters but also other items like shoes designed by the artist. The first location of the Factory was in 231 E. 47th Street, 5th Floor (between 1st & 2nd Ave). Warhol's favorite printmaking technique was silkscreen. It came closest to his idea of proliferation of art. Apart from being an Art Produ...