Sentences with phrase «under magical lighting»

This internationally renowned company presents a show with a dramatic mix of circus arts and street entertainment, featuring wild, outrageous costumes, staged under magical lighting and set to original music.

Not exact matches

The menu changes based on what's fresh, but it's always delicious, and the outdoor seating under twinkle lights and twinkling stars makes the night truly magical.

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Once the sun sets, you can dine under the starry night sky whilst overlooking the magical lights of Hersonissos.

Of course, the most impressive feature of the room has to be the glass doors which open onto the private terrace, letting in an abundance of light and offering insane views of the lagoon and uninhabited islands on the horizon.You are able to get beautiful views of the turquoise water which sparkles under the sun rays from everywhere in the room — including the bathroom if you raise the blinds!Also, as the villas are not overlooked by any other rooms you can leave the curtains drawn and wake up to this magical view in the morning!

The 3 cosy balconies invite guests to unwind against the magical seascape or enjoy a romantic candle light dinner under the stars.

Several of us got together to talk about Light Fall on Nintendo Switch, a platformer where you use the power of the Shadow Core to spawn magical boxes under you feet that allow you to face challenges and create your own path through each level.

Under a glaring sun, the player wanders through ruined cities that have become vast exotic rain forests, and the game is lit to make everything look almost magical.

His paintings are so appealing at first sight, as delightful coloured patterns with pleasing figurative imagery, that many look no longer, or see no further, and for them the magical metamorphosis does not take place; they do not find that they are standing on a little terrace under a walnut tree looking through an overgrown garden straight towards the afternoon sun which is sparkling on the Seine below them, and all looking not as it would to them, but more mysterious, more overpowering, fuller of space and light and colour and overwhelmingly real and harmonious.

, 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,

I imagine dinner under that chandelier with the curtains billowing in the breeze and the lanterns lit would be NOTHING shy of magical!

Gathering around the fireplace under the glow of the Christmas tree lights is magical this time of year.