Sentences with phrase «complete narrative of your life»

Not exact matches

A carefully wrought piece about understanding who you are and what you want in this life, it displays a complete mastery of narrative from director Marcelo Martinessi.

Reitman and Cody aren't especially interested in a narrative that's about a woman rediscovering the joys of family life — or, for that matter, one that's about a woman casting off those shackles, despite a late - movie sequence where Marlo and Tully tear it up in the former's old Bushwick haunts (complete with the perfectly and silently observed rigmarole of driving into Brooklyn from the suburbs even when there's not much traffic).

They've decided that this should be the setting for the necessary shoot - out required to complete the narrative of Marty's screenplay and their own lives.

JACOB LAWRENCE COMPLETED «The Life of Toussaint L'Ouverture,» his first series of historic narrative paintings in 1938.

DAVID DRISKELL Creative Spirit: Five Decades by Bridget Goodbody DAINA HIGGINS New Paintings by Charles Schultz LOIS DODD New Panel Paintings by Sharon Butler Unlikely Friends: JAMES BROOKS & DAN FLAVIN by Greg Lindquist DAMIEN HIRST The Complete Spot Paintings 1986 — 2011 by Corina Larkin LORI ELLISON by Corina Larkin GEORGES HUGNET The Love Life of the Spumifers by Valery Oisteanu Dark Christmas by Bradley Rubenstein ELLSWORTH KELLY Schwarz & Weiss by David Rhodes MALCOLM MORLEY Another Way to Make an Image, Monotypes by Robert Storr Five Works from the Collection of Albert Murray: ROMARE BEARDEN and NORMAN LEWIS by Charles Schultz THE RONALD S. LAUDER COLLECTION: Selections from the 3rd Century BC to the 20th Century / Germany, Austria, and France by Charles Schultz Anonymous Tantra Paintings by Noah Dillon SANGRAM MAJUMDAR New Work by Kara L. Rooney GUDMUNDUR THORODDSEN Father's Father by Paolo Javier SOTO Paris and Beyond, 1950 — 1970 by Cora Fisher JESS Paintings by Phong Bui GEORGE MCNEIL by Robert Berlind VICTOR MATTHEWS by Vincent Katz LOLA MONTES SCHNABEL Love Before Intimacy by David Markus THOMAS WOODRUFF The Four Temperament Variations by Kara L. Rooney MARTHA CLIPPINGER Hopscotch by Robert Berlind PETER GALLO by Jonathan Goodman Connected by Noah Dillon KANDINSKY's «Painting with White Border» by Susan Bee BARBARA SANDLER Straight On Till Morning by Robert Berlind December (Organized by Howie Chen) by Nathan Kernan EDWIN DICKINSON In Retrospect by Robert Berlind JOSÉ RIVERA by Nathan Kernan REMBRANDT»S WORLD: Dutch Drawings from the Clement C. Moore Collection by Sara Christoph JOSEPH MONTGOMERY Velveteen by Linnea Kniaz The Renaissance Portrait from Donatello to Bellini by Mira Schor BOSCO SODI Ubi Sunt by Jonathan Goodman DOUG WADA Americana by Lilly Wei Mind the Gap by Anne Sherwood Pundyk BILL JENSEN by Ben La Rocco WITHIN / WITHOUT: A Studio Visit With SHOSHANA DENTZ by Zachary Wollard SUSANNA HELLER's Studio by Robert Berlind STUDIO VISIT: JOYCE PENSATO by William Corwin Making American Taste: Narrative Art for a New Democracy by Shane McAdams Letter from BERLIN by David Rhodes JOSEPH MARIONI Eye to Eye by Robert C. Morgan GORDON MOORE by Joan Waltemath Master Bill at MoMA by Irving Sandler

Kottie Paloma's new paintings are composed of muted colors and text portraying a rough poetry of daily life in which he describes as abstract narratives leading the viewer into snippets or chapters of a yet to be completed book.

Complementing an exhibition that was on view at the Art Institute of Chicago, the volume includes Parks's black and white images with narrative captions accompanying the plates; Ellison's typed manuscript for «Harlem is Nowhere,» complete with handwritten edits; and the layout pages for «A Man Becomes Invisible,» reproduced from Life.

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,