an assortment of things all pasted together to create something larger. with more depth. these pieces often have greater significance together in the creation of a more in depth idea
i could not think of words to describe our collage. la colle. la colle. it nested in my heart and swamped it with too much electricity that the little electrons could not get away from each other and I could not breathe because they were too close. too damn close.
My life is a collage. At least in my head it is. I think of snap shots of things, moments, little anecdotes that give me a glimmer of hope, a small smile, or a questionable longing, a desire for something i didn’t know i wanted. The collage in my head is forever changing, forever manipulated by the outside world, and the thing i love most about my collage is that is exactly that. Mine.
lovely piece of artwork where things are attached at random to create something interesting. it can be done individually or collaboratively. one can use many things like cloth, paper, garbage
She remembers when it was just her against the world, her leather-clad feet kicking up dust as she ran down the old dirt road to pastures new. When it was just her, the heat and the susurrus of a thousand insects chirping in the trees and the short, bristle-like grass that carpeted the wide, open plain.
Then she somehow found herself with a tag-along; a lanky creature with acid-green eyes and vast feathered wings, who talked too much and sang too loud. They went from barely knowing each other to the closest of friends in only a handful of days, with their own little jokes and an unspoken understanding, fitting together like they were pieces of the same puzzle that simply hadn’t known there had been pieces missing.
They made each other feel light and airy, like the world had been reduced to one long, summer evening where nothing mattered and everything was easy. They kept each other grounded when it felt like there was nothing there to stand on, pulled each other up when it all became too much and it felt like they were drowning. Together, they were something that was more or less inseparable and almost unstoppable.
She looked around the room at the wafer thin pages that were pasted to the walls. Spidery handwriting covered them front and back. The dim candle light made the words bleed through so you sa both sides on the front. The sentences merged together forming some kind of alien language unknown to her eyes.
Writing is more than putting words on paper: writing is not collage, a brain dump or random stream of consciousness. Nor is it the art form equivalent of creating paper-mache models. To write is to exchange meaning with predefined tools, and knowing the tools and how they work and are effective is the job of the writer.
She remembers when it was just her against the world, her leather-clad feet kicking up dust as she ran down the old dirt road to pastures new. When it was just her, the heat and the susurrus of a thousand insects chirping in the trees and the short, bristle-like grass that carpeted the wide, open plain.
Then she somehow found herself with a tag-along; a lanky creature with acid-green eyes and vast feathery wings, who talked too much and sang too loud. They went from barely knowing each other to the closest of friends in only a handful of days, with their own little jokes and an unspoken understanding, fitting together like they were pieces of the same puzzle that simply hadn’t known there had been pieces missing.
They made each other feel light and airy, like the world had been reduced to one long, summer evening where nothing mattered and everything was easy. They kept each other grounded when it felt like there was nothing there to stand on, pulled each other up when it all became too much and it felt like they were drowning. Together, they were a team that was more or less inseparable and almost unstoppable.
I remember making a collage of Lon Chaney when I was a teen. I had discovered him through an issue of MONSTER magazine and was so entranced with the silent horror star that I got a Baskin-Robins ice cream tub and covered it with photos of him. It was a strange fixation.
The leaves in the trees swung swiftly from each individual branch. The squirrels swirled sweetly in their silly dance amidst the collage of copper colored leaves. Nuts to be gathered, things to be done, and yet, there is lighthearted fun to be had.
She remembers when it was just her against the world, her leather-clad feet kicking up dust as she ran down the old dirt road to pastures new. When it was just her, the heat and the susurrus of a thousand insects chirping in the trees and the short, bristle-like grass that carpeted the wide, open plain.
Then she somehow found herself with a tag-along; a lanky creature with acid-green eyes and vast feathery wings, who talked too much and sang too loud. They went from barely knowing each other to the closest of friends in only a handful of days, with their own little jokes and an unspoken understanding, fitting together like they were pieces of the same puzzle that simply hadn’t known there had been pieces missing.
They made each other feel light and airy, like the world had been reduced to one long, summer evening where nothing mattered and everything was easy. They kept each other grounded when it felt like there was nothing there to stand on, pulled each other up when it all became too much and it felt like they were drowning. Together, they were a team that was more or less inseparable and almost unstoppable.
The entire wall was colored and papered and shoved stock full of everything she had ever dreamed of having. Men, clothing, dresses, beaches, couches…. It was an entire collage of every thought that went through her head. If only it were so easy to express oneself in words as it was in images. Or perhaps it was the other way around for most.
It was a mosaic mess of newsprint and old photos. Photos of people I’d probablly known a long time ago but wouldn’t care to remember. Faded polaroids of rougish football thugs and primadonna twirlers in skirts yanked much higher than their standards. It was like stepping back into a world I would never belong in and no longer cared to. I closed the box.
It was a mosaic mess of newspaper and old photos. Photos of people I’d probablly seen a long time ago but wouldn’t care to remember. Pictures of faded rouged football thugs and primadonna twirlers in skirts yanked as low as their standards. It was like stepping back into a world I would never belong in and no longer cared to. I closed the box.
we are all a collage, mashed together by the mechanics of some god who doesnt care we writhe and pul at our boundaries but all for naught because we are glued to the confines of our pretty little worlds that mean nothing to anybody but us…
Oh dear… Well. Collage. Sort of like an assembly of different things to make a display.
For instance, my bookcase is a collage of lot’s of different fantasy literature with seemingly no rhyme or reason to the order that they appear. They just make a collage of juicy Fantasy bliss, soothing to fantasy lovers and pleading you to come and read them.
Pieces of a yearned-for life make up the page, rough edges, sticky glue, dreams caught by someone else and run in magazines, torn out and stuck together to make the impossible goal.
Jesus Christ. This word sounds too much like college, and the sun is coming up, and I haven’t slept all night, and I checked my gmail for new messages and the first one that hit me in the face said: Emily, would you pay to work for someone for free? I opened it and it informed me: “No, really! Lots of students are paying to export themselves to intern for other companies!” And below that was the article: “Why you will pay more for college than anyone else has ever paid, ever.” I’m considering moving to Alaska and making multi-media collages made from eagle feathers and birch bark for the rest of my life.
a collage is a collection of pictures.
it can be pictures of abything ranging from bi rthday or special events like to pictures of things you like like animals, clothes etc.
i learned to make a collage in 6th standard.
I made a collage on different type of mammals.
The collage that we choose for the art show was just brilliant. Everyone worked hard on coming up with just the right colors that give the set that unique touch, and we loved it.
collage is a collection ofs special events birthday pictures. it’s may be made for capturing memories of birthdays, special events in life or given as a gift to friens.
i learned to make collage in class 6th. it was the first time i clubbed so many pictures together yet it made sense.
She remembers when it was just her against the world, her leather-clad feet kicking up dust as she ran down the old dirt road to pastures new. When it was just her, the heat and the susurrus of a thousand insects chirping in the trees and short, bristle-like grass turned golden from the drought.
Then, somehow she found herself with a tag-along; a lanky creature with acid-green eyes and vast feathery wings, who talked too much and sang too loud, but also shaded her from the harshness of the sun and always urged her to keep on moving forwards.
They traveled together for a long time, visiting many places and trying many things. It came as no surprise when they started picking up strays, her friend a magnet for oddities and trouble. Many came and went, but there were some who stayed; a boy who’d had enough, a man made of metal who’d read more books than he’d lived days, a pair of twins who were excellent craftsmen, and a woman colder and more twisted than anyone ever ought to be. They were an awkward group and there were often fights, but they never lasted for long, forgiveness coming easy between them all. They were the family she’d never intended to have, never thought to have, brought together by chance, and she wouldn’t dream of having it any other way.
What is it you randomly put together that than as ensemble needs to have a meaning. We’re trying to give to much meaning to things that are unrelated anyway.
I step back , my collage finally finished. A picture if everyone I left behind , happy and smiling. I wonder if they still feel that way. I wish I could see them again but I know I can’t let that happen. I’ve changed and I need to be alone for a while , start fresh. And everyone back home is holding me back. “This is for the better .” I have to remind myself that or I’ll breakdown and cry again like I did in my way here. ” I’ll be happier.” I hope so anyway.
initially i read this as college because i’m stupid
okay i remember when i was in the fourth grade or something they used to make me do collages all the time and i hated it so so so much so i used to just pick up literally one magazine and cut out all the photos and hoped that they formed some unifying theme spoiler alert they usually didn’t then when i got a bit older and wised up to the world i just went on google images and searched a bunch of shit and pretended like i’d found it in all different places. and that is a metaphor for my entire educational philosophy: pretend like you’ve done a shitload more work than you actually have.
“Those old pictures?” I thought you’d forgot all about them, she smiled just when Lucas picked up a pile of collages photos with her at the seaside. She had the chance to see herself once again like she was back then. Mesmerizing.
Her face was a collage of black and blue and lines of red, like a bad piece of modern art. The downwards-facing crescent beneath her nose was the heart of the work, and the ink itself told less of a story than the fact it was smudged down the cheek.
Sticky pieces of paper that are glued to your hands no matter how hard you try to tear them away, and a wholly disproportionate piece of art before you that your W.E. teacher nonetheless gives you a generous B for – ah, collages!
Life is a collage of moments held together by whatever glue we spit out. Sometimes it all holds and creates a perfect picture. Most times it’s just gooey mess.
The tip of my thumb glided across the glossy surface of the photographs, trembling as I bit back tears. Wind whistled past my ears and ruffled the paper leaves; a symphony of memories and nostalgia.
With a single step forward, the pictures exploded into the air, and the sky became my collage.
sunsets melting into sunrises,
sea-salt evaporating into the horizon,
clouds from the ocean fleeing to the desert,
stirring up sandstorms and whirlwinds and hair
in all directions
dirt from asia stuck underneath your world-weary boots
that match your world-weary smile
( you with your world-weary fingers that have grazed
maps and ink and arctic cold )
i’ve dreamed about you in black and white,
and technicolor,
and memories faded at the edges until they’re all grainy
but most of all, your voice on repeat, your body a mixtape
“one day i’ll take you with me.”
i’ll finish your journey for you in my dreams,
live your life for you while i’m awake
continue all the post-tragedy tedium that is living
while you’re free to backpack in your
eternal dreams.
( travelers do an awful lot of goodbye-ing
i should’ve been used to it by now )
Collage appeared in front of me;mysterious and appealing at the same time.I reached for it,hands touching the cold material.Flashbacks.Lots of them.My mother,my father all in a hurry,trying to get as many people out as possible.I watced in horror.There was nothing else to do.
there was a ratty collage on the ground. it was covered in pictures of beautiful places. beautiful people. and sadly, it was all torn up. i wondered what happened. did someone give up on their dreams of beautiful things? maybe they lost hope that they could ever find anything beautiful. like i had.
My emotions. My memories. My life.
a mixture of pictures ideas things that are related and intertwined in a way and placed together on paper to be visually appealing to the viewer
an assortment of things all pasted together to create something larger. with more depth. these pieces often have greater significance together in the creation of a more in depth idea
i could not think of words to describe our collage. la colle. la colle. it nested in my heart and swamped it with too much electricity that the little electrons could not get away from each other and I could not breathe because they were too close. too damn close.
mix of things
patterns of sorts
stitching things togther
making something whole
together the better
divided it falls
My life is a collage. At least in my head it is. I think of snap shots of things, moments, little anecdotes that give me a glimmer of hope, a small smile, or a questionable longing, a desire for something i didn’t know i wanted. The collage in my head is forever changing, forever manipulated by the outside world, and the thing i love most about my collage is that is exactly that. Mine.
lovely piece of artwork where things are attached at random to create something interesting. it can be done individually or collaboratively. one can use many things like cloth, paper, garbage
She remembers when it was just her against the world, her leather-clad feet kicking up dust as she ran down the old dirt road to pastures new. When it was just her, the heat and the susurrus of a thousand insects chirping in the trees and the short, bristle-like grass that carpeted the wide, open plain.
Then she somehow found herself with a tag-along; a lanky creature with acid-green eyes and vast feathered wings, who talked too much and sang too loud. They went from barely knowing each other to the closest of friends in only a handful of days, with their own little jokes and an unspoken understanding, fitting together like they were pieces of the same puzzle that simply hadn’t known there had been pieces missing.
They made each other feel light and airy, like the world had been reduced to one long, summer evening where nothing mattered and everything was easy. They kept each other grounded when it felt like there was nothing there to stand on, pulled each other up when it all became too much and it felt like they were drowning. Together, they were something that was more or less inseparable and almost unstoppable.
She looked around the room at the wafer thin pages that were pasted to the walls. Spidery handwriting covered them front and back. The dim candle light made the words bleed through so you sa both sides on the front. The sentences merged together forming some kind of alien language unknown to her eyes.
Writing is more than putting words on paper: writing is not collage, a brain dump or random stream of consciousness. Nor is it the art form equivalent of creating paper-mache models. To write is to exchange meaning with predefined tools, and knowing the tools and how they work and are effective is the job of the writer.
She remembers when it was just her against the world, her leather-clad feet kicking up dust as she ran down the old dirt road to pastures new. When it was just her, the heat and the susurrus of a thousand insects chirping in the trees and the short, bristle-like grass that carpeted the wide, open plain.
Then she somehow found herself with a tag-along; a lanky creature with acid-green eyes and vast feathery wings, who talked too much and sang too loud. They went from barely knowing each other to the closest of friends in only a handful of days, with their own little jokes and an unspoken understanding, fitting together like they were pieces of the same puzzle that simply hadn’t known there had been pieces missing.
They made each other feel light and airy, like the world had been reduced to one long, summer evening where nothing mattered and everything was easy. They kept each other grounded when it felt like there was nothing there to stand on, pulled each other up when it all became too much and it felt like they were drowning. Together, they were a team that was more or less inseparable and almost unstoppable.
I remember making a collage of Lon Chaney when I was a teen. I had discovered him through an issue of MONSTER magazine and was so entranced with the silent horror star that I got a Baskin-Robins ice cream tub and covered it with photos of him. It was a strange fixation.
The leaves in the trees swung swiftly from each individual branch. The squirrels swirled sweetly in their silly dance amidst the collage of copper colored leaves. Nuts to be gathered, things to be done, and yet, there is lighthearted fun to be had.
She remembers when it was just her against the world, her leather-clad feet kicking up dust as she ran down the old dirt road to pastures new. When it was just her, the heat and the susurrus of a thousand insects chirping in the trees and the short, bristle-like grass that carpeted the wide, open plain.
Then she somehow found herself with a tag-along; a lanky creature with acid-green eyes and vast feathery wings, who talked too much and sang too loud. They went from barely knowing each other to the closest of friends in only a handful of days, with their own little jokes and an unspoken understanding, fitting together like they were pieces of the same puzzle that simply hadn’t known there had been pieces missing.
They made each other feel light and airy, like the world had been reduced to one long, summer evening where nothing mattered and everything was easy. They kept each other grounded when it felt like there was nothing there to stand on, pulled each other up when it all became too much and it felt like they were drowning. Together, they were a team that was more or less inseparable and almost unstoppable.
The creature and the girl, the best of friends.
The entire wall was colored and papered and shoved stock full of everything she had ever dreamed of having. Men, clothing, dresses, beaches, couches…. It was an entire collage of every thought that went through her head. If only it were so easy to express oneself in words as it was in images. Or perhaps it was the other way around for most.
It was a mosaic mess of newsprint and old photos. Photos of people I’d probablly known a long time ago but wouldn’t care to remember. Faded polaroids of rougish football thugs and primadonna twirlers in skirts yanked much higher than their standards. It was like stepping back into a world I would never belong in and no longer cared to. I closed the box.
paste together. collected fractions of pieced goods, bads and the sometimes ugly.
It was a mosaic mess of newspaper and old photos. Photos of people I’d probablly seen a long time ago but wouldn’t care to remember. Pictures of faded rouged football thugs and primadonna twirlers in skirts yanked as low as their standards. It was like stepping back into a world I would never belong in and no longer cared to. I closed the box.
Parties. Friends. Love. Relationships. Learning. success. teaching. fun. originatity. class. classy.
we are all a collage, mashed together by the mechanics of some god who doesnt care we writhe and pul at our boundaries but all for naught because we are glued to the confines of our pretty little worlds that mean nothing to anybody but us…
Oh dear… Well. Collage. Sort of like an assembly of different things to make a display.
For instance, my bookcase is a collage of lot’s of different fantasy literature with seemingly no rhyme or reason to the order that they appear. They just make a collage of juicy Fantasy bliss, soothing to fantasy lovers and pleading you to come and read them.
Pieces of a yearned-for life make up the page, rough edges, sticky glue, dreams caught by someone else and run in magazines, torn out and stuck together to make the impossible goal.
Jesus Christ. This word sounds too much like college, and the sun is coming up, and I haven’t slept all night, and I checked my gmail for new messages and the first one that hit me in the face said: Emily, would you pay to work for someone for free? I opened it and it informed me: “No, really! Lots of students are paying to export themselves to intern for other companies!” And below that was the article: “Why you will pay more for college than anyone else has ever paid, ever.” I’m considering moving to Alaska and making multi-media collages made from eagle feathers and birch bark for the rest of my life.
a collage is a collection of pictures.
it can be pictures of abything ranging from bi rthday or special events like to pictures of things you like like animals, clothes etc.
i learned to make a collage in 6th standard.
I made a collage on different type of mammals.
The collage that we choose for the art show was just brilliant. Everyone worked hard on coming up with just the right colors that give the set that unique touch, and we loved it.
collage is a collection ofs special events birthday pictures. it’s may be made for capturing memories of birthdays, special events in life or given as a gift to friens.
i learned to make collage in class 6th. it was the first time i clubbed so many pictures together yet it made sense.
school work grow up mix run then free love no why not shure pleas help church found trueth real now please so much run kite study leaarn
She remembers when it was just her against the world, her leather-clad feet kicking up dust as she ran down the old dirt road to pastures new. When it was just her, the heat and the susurrus of a thousand insects chirping in the trees and short, bristle-like grass turned golden from the drought.
Then, somehow she found herself with a tag-along; a lanky creature with acid-green eyes and vast feathery wings, who talked too much and sang too loud, but also shaded her from the harshness of the sun and always urged her to keep on moving forwards.
They traveled together for a long time, visiting many places and trying many things. It came as no surprise when they started picking up strays, her friend a magnet for oddities and trouble. Many came and went, but there were some who stayed; a boy who’d had enough, a man made of metal who’d read more books than he’d lived days, a pair of twins who were excellent craftsmen, and a woman colder and more twisted than anyone ever ought to be. They were an awkward group and there were often fights, but they never lasted for long, forgiveness coming easy between them all. They were the family she’d never intended to have, never thought to have, brought together by chance, and she wouldn’t dream of having it any other way.
eine collage sind mehrere bilder in einem – plaziert in einer nicht definierten reihenfolge/ordnung.
What is it you randomly put together that than as ensemble needs to have a meaning. We’re trying to give to much meaning to things that are unrelated anyway.
I step back , my collage finally finished. A picture if everyone I left behind , happy and smiling. I wonder if they still feel that way. I wish I could see them again but I know I can’t let that happen. I’ve changed and I need to be alone for a while , start fresh. And everyone back home is holding me back. “This is for the better .” I have to remind myself that or I’ll breakdown and cry again like I did in my way here. ” I’ll be happier.” I hope so anyway.
initially i read this as college because i’m stupid
okay i remember when i was in the fourth grade or something they used to make me do collages all the time and i hated it so so so much so i used to just pick up literally one magazine and cut out all the photos and hoped that they formed some unifying theme spoiler alert they usually didn’t then when i got a bit older and wised up to the world i just went on google images and searched a bunch of shit and pretended like i’d found it in all different places. and that is a metaphor for my entire educational philosophy: pretend like you’ve done a shitload more work than you actually have.
“Those old pictures?” I thought you’d forgot all about them, she smiled just when Lucas picked up a pile of collages photos with her at the seaside. She had the chance to see herself once again like she was back then. Mesmerizing.
Her face was a collage of black and blue and lines of red, like a bad piece of modern art. The downwards-facing crescent beneath her nose was the heart of the work, and the ink itself told less of a story than the fact it was smudged down the cheek.
Sticky pieces of paper that are glued to your hands no matter how hard you try to tear them away, and a wholly disproportionate piece of art before you that your W.E. teacher nonetheless gives you a generous B for – ah, collages!
Life is a collage of moments held together by whatever glue we spit out. Sometimes it all holds and creates a perfect picture. Most times it’s just gooey mess.
The tip of my thumb glided across the glossy surface of the photographs, trembling as I bit back tears. Wind whistled past my ears and ruffled the paper leaves; a symphony of memories and nostalgia.
With a single step forward, the pictures exploded into the air, and the sky became my collage.
sunsets melting into sunrises,
sea-salt evaporating into the horizon,
clouds from the ocean fleeing to the desert,
stirring up sandstorms and whirlwinds and hair
in all directions
dirt from asia stuck underneath your world-weary boots
that match your world-weary smile
( you with your world-weary fingers that have grazed
maps and ink and arctic cold )
i’ve dreamed about you in black and white,
and technicolor,
and memories faded at the edges until they’re all grainy
but most of all, your voice on repeat, your body a mixtape
“one day i’ll take you with me.”
i’ll finish your journey for you in my dreams,
live your life for you while i’m awake
continue all the post-tragedy tedium that is living
while you’re free to backpack in your
eternal dreams.
( travelers do an awful lot of goodbye-ing
i should’ve been used to it by now )
Collage appeared in front of me;mysterious and appealing at the same time.I reached for it,hands touching the cold material.Flashbacks.Lots of them.My mother,my father all in a hurry,trying to get as many people out as possible.I watced in horror.There was nothing else to do.
there was a ratty collage on the ground. it was covered in pictures of beautiful places. beautiful people. and sadly, it was all torn up. i wondered what happened. did someone give up on their dreams of beautiful things? maybe they lost hope that they could ever find anything beautiful. like i had.