Jack Vettriano her Secret lifeJack Vettriano Her Secret Life IIJack Vettriano Heat Wave
wizards in there were actually doing, but because he strongly suspected that they didn't, either. They seemed to positively enjoy becoming less and less certain about everything and would come in to dinner saying things like 'Wow, we've just Ridcully pushed his way past him and into the HEM. It was unfamiliar ground for a traditional wizard. There wasn't a skull or dribbly candle to be seen; this particular room looked like an alchemist's laboratory had suffered the inevitable explosion and landed in a blacksmith's shopoverturned Marrowleaf's Theory of Thaumic Imponderability! Amazing!' as if it was something to be proud of, instead of gross discourtesy.And they were always talking about splitting the thaum, the smallest unit of magic. The Archchancellor couldn't see the point. So you had bits all over the place. What good would that do? The universewas bad enough without people poking it.The door opened.'Oh, it's you, Archchancellor.'Ridcully pushed the door open further."Morning, Stibbons. Glad to see you're up and about early.'Ponder Stibbons, the faculty's youngest member, blinked at the sky.'Is it morning already?' he said.
Wednesday 13 May 2009
Monday 11 May 2009
Salvador Dali Leda Atomica
Salvador Dali Leda AtomicaJoseph Mallord William Turner The Grand Canal VeniceJoseph Mallord William Turner PortsmouthJohn Singer Sargent Lady Agnew
think I change my name,' said Lias, eventually. 'I mean . . . Lias? Not a good name for the music business.'
'What'll you change it to?' said Glod.
'I thought . . . Imp is sticking with Imp, right?'
Imp looked at the guitar. It's not right, he thought. I hardly touched it. I just . . . And I feel so tired . . .
'Not sure,' he said, wretchedly. 'Not sure if Imp is the right name for . . . this music.' His voice trailed off. He yawned.
'Imp?' said Glod, after a while.
'Hmm?' said Imp. And he'd felt someone was watching him out there. That was daft, of course. He couldn't say to someone 'I was on stage and I thought someone was watching me'. They'd say 'Really? That's really occult, that is . . .'
'Imp?' said Glod, 'why're you snapping your fingers like that?'
Imp looked down.don't laugh . . . I thought . . . Cliff?' said Lias.'Cliff?''Good troll name. Very stony. Very rocky. Nothing wrong with it,' said Cliff né Lias, defensively.'Well . . . yes . . . but, I dunno, I mean . . . well . . . Cliff? Can't see anyone lasting long in this business with a name like Cliff.''Better than Glod, anyway.''I'm sticking with Glod,' said Glod. 'And
think I change my name,' said Lias, eventually. 'I mean . . . Lias? Not a good name for the music business.'
'What'll you change it to?' said Glod.
'I thought . . . Imp is sticking with Imp, right?'
Imp looked at the guitar. It's not right, he thought. I hardly touched it. I just . . . And I feel so tired . . .
'Not sure,' he said, wretchedly. 'Not sure if Imp is the right name for . . . this music.' His voice trailed off. He yawned.
'Imp?' said Glod, after a while.
'Hmm?' said Imp. And he'd felt someone was watching him out there. That was daft, of course. He couldn't say to someone 'I was on stage and I thought someone was watching me'. They'd say 'Really? That's really occult, that is . . .'
'Imp?' said Glod, 'why're you snapping your fingers like that?'
Imp looked down.don't laugh . . . I thought . . . Cliff?' said Lias.'Cliff?''Good troll name. Very stony. Very rocky. Nothing wrong with it,' said Cliff né Lias, defensively.'Well . . . yes . . . but, I dunno, I mean . . . well . . . Cliff? Can't see anyone lasting long in this business with a name like Cliff.''Better than Glod, anyway.''I'm sticking with Glod,' said Glod. 'And
Wednesday 6 May 2009
Thomas Kinkade Footprints in the sand
Thomas Kinkade Footprints in the sandThomas Kinkade Fisherman's WharfThomas Kinkade elegant eveningThomas Kinkade Cobblestone Evening
thinking,' he muttered. 'That's the stuff Now, a wolf, your basic wolf, he'd jump, and if he couldn't jump, he'd be stuck. Whereas me, on account of uperior intelligence, can assess the whole wossname and arrive at a solution through application of mental processes.'
He nudged the gargoyle squatting on the angle of the gutter.
'Ot oo oo ont?'
'If you don't help me down to that balcony, I'll widdk in your ear.'
BIG FIDO?
'Yes?'it until Big Fido came back.
His collar was kept in a secret place and visited regularly by dogs until they forgot about it.
Sergeant Colon pushed open the door with the end of his pike.
The Tower had floors, a long time ago. Now it was hollow all the way up, criss-crossed by golden shafts of light from ancient window embrasures.HEEL. There were, eventually, two theories about the end of Big Fido.The one put forward by the dog Gaspode, based on observational evidence, was that his remains were picked up by Foul Ole Ron and sold within five minutes to a furrier, and that Big Fido eventually saw the light of day again as a set of ear muffs and a pair of fleecy gloves.The one believed by every other dog, based on what might tentatively be called the truth of the heart, was that he survived his fall, fled the city, and eventually led a huge pack of mountain wolves who nightly struck terror into isolated farmsteads. It made digging in the middens and hanging around back doors for scraps seem . . . well, more bearable. They were, after all, only doing
thinking,' he muttered. 'That's the stuff Now, a wolf, your basic wolf, he'd jump, and if he couldn't jump, he'd be stuck. Whereas me, on account of uperior intelligence, can assess the whole wossname and arrive at a solution through application of mental processes.'
He nudged the gargoyle squatting on the angle of the gutter.
'Ot oo oo ont?'
'If you don't help me down to that balcony, I'll widdk in your ear.'
BIG FIDO?
'Yes?'it until Big Fido came back.
His collar was kept in a secret place and visited regularly by dogs until they forgot about it.
Sergeant Colon pushed open the door with the end of his pike.
The Tower had floors, a long time ago. Now it was hollow all the way up, criss-crossed by golden shafts of light from ancient window embrasures.HEEL. There were, eventually, two theories about the end of Big Fido.The one put forward by the dog Gaspode, based on observational evidence, was that his remains were picked up by Foul Ole Ron and sold within five minutes to a furrier, and that Big Fido eventually saw the light of day again as a set of ear muffs and a pair of fleecy gloves.The one believed by every other dog, based on what might tentatively be called the truth of the heart, was that he survived his fall, fled the city, and eventually led a huge pack of mountain wolves who nightly struck terror into isolated farmsteads. It made digging in the middens and hanging around back doors for scraps seem . . . well, more bearable. They were, after all, only doing
Monday 4 May 2009
Pop art king elvis on red
Pop art king elvis on redPop art kim gordon on bluePop art green on green
yes. Boffo was on gate duty and he distinctly remembers him going out.'
'He knows it 'If only he'd stuck to something, you know, original,' said Dr Whiteface.
'Like a bucket of whitewash over the door, or a custard pie?' said Sergeant Colon.
'That's right!'
'Well, we might as well be going,' said Carrot. 'was him?'Dr Whiteface looked blank.'Of course.''How?''How? He recognized him, of course. That's how you know who people are. You look at them and you say . . . that's him. That's called re-cog-nit-ion,' said the clown, with pointed deliberation. 'It was Beano. Boffo said he looked very worried.''Ah. Fine. No more questions, doctor. Did Beano have any friends among the Assassins?''Well . . . possibly, possibly. We don't discourage visitors.'Carrot stared at the clown's face. Then he smiled.'Of course. Well, that about wraps it all up, I think.'
yes. Boffo was on gate duty and he distinctly remembers him going out.'
'He knows it 'If only he'd stuck to something, you know, original,' said Dr Whiteface.
'Like a bucket of whitewash over the door, or a custard pie?' said Sergeant Colon.
'That's right!'
'Well, we might as well be going,' said Carrot. 'was him?'Dr Whiteface looked blank.'Of course.''How?''How? He recognized him, of course. That's how you know who people are. You look at them and you say . . . that's him. That's called re-cog-nit-ion,' said the clown, with pointed deliberation. 'It was Beano. Boffo said he looked very worried.''Ah. Fine. No more questions, doctor. Did Beano have any friends among the Assassins?''Well . . . possibly, possibly. We don't discourage visitors.'Carrot stared at the clown's face. Then he smiled.'Of course. Well, that about wraps it all up, I think.'
Wednesday 29 April 2009
Lord Frederick Leighton Leighton Idyll
Lord Frederick Leighton Leighton IdyllLord Frederick Leighton The Painter's HoneymoonLord Frederick Leighton Leighton Mother and ChildLord Frederick Leighton Leighton Music Lesson
Dibbler peered at the down forgotten walls.
He walked down several narrow flights of steps and along a passage to a door, which he unlocked. It swung back on well-oiled hinges.
It was not, exactly, a dungeon; the room on the other side was quite airy and well lit by several large but high windows. It had a smell of wood shavings and glue.
'Look out!'
The Patrician ducked.broken remains of the cart. His lips moved as he calculated.'Here!' he shouted. 'You owe – hey, you owe me for three rats!' Lord Vetinari had felt slightly ashamed when he watched the door close behind Captain Vimes. He couldn't work out why. Of course, it was hard on the man, but it was the only way . . .He took a key from a cabinet by his desk and walked over to the wall. His hands touched a mark on the plaster that was apparently no different from a dozen other marks, but this one caused a section of wall to swing aside on well-oiled hinges.No-one knew all the passages and tunnels hidden in the walls of the Palace; it was said that some of them went a lot further than that. And there were any amount of old cellars under the city. A man with a pick-axe and a sense of direction could go where he liked just by knocking
Dibbler peered at the down forgotten walls.
He walked down several narrow flights of steps and along a passage to a door, which he unlocked. It swung back on well-oiled hinges.
It was not, exactly, a dungeon; the room on the other side was quite airy and well lit by several large but high windows. It had a smell of wood shavings and glue.
'Look out!'
The Patrician ducked.broken remains of the cart. His lips moved as he calculated.'Here!' he shouted. 'You owe – hey, you owe me for three rats!' Lord Vetinari had felt slightly ashamed when he watched the door close behind Captain Vimes. He couldn't work out why. Of course, it was hard on the man, but it was the only way . . .He took a key from a cabinet by his desk and walked over to the wall. His hands touched a mark on the plaster that was apparently no different from a dozen other marks, but this one caused a section of wall to swing aside on well-oiled hinges.No-one knew all the passages and tunnels hidden in the walls of the Palace; it was said that some of them went a lot further than that. And there were any amount of old cellars under the city. A man with a pick-axe and a sense of direction could go where he liked just by knocking
Tuesday 28 April 2009
Marc Chagall The Concert
Marc Chagall The ConcertPaul Gauguin When Will You MarryPaul Gauguin What Are You JealousPaul Gauguin Two Tahitian Women
the weight of all them rhinestones.'
'I expect it was.'
'They let me do pretty much as I like,' said Gaspode.
'I can see that.'
'Sometimes I don't go home for, oh, days at a time.'
'Right?'
'Weeks, sometimes.'
'Sure.'
'But Gaspode whimpered a little.
'You want to be careful, you know. A young bitch like you can meet real trouble in this dog's city.'
They had reached the wooden jetty behind Hammer-hock's workshop.
'How d'you—' Angua paused.
There was a mixture of smells here, but the overpowering one was as sharp as a saw.
'Fireworks?'they're always so glad to see me when I do,' said Gaspode.'I thought you said you slept up at the University,' said Angua, as they dodged a cart in Rime Street.For a moment Gaspode smelled uncertain, but he recovered magnificently.'Yeah, right,' he said. 'We-ell, you know how it is, families . . . All them kids picking you up, giving you biscuits and similar, people pattin' you the whole time. Gets on yer nerves. So I sleeps up there quite often.''Right.''More often than not, point of fact.''Really?'
the weight of all them rhinestones.'
'I expect it was.'
'They let me do pretty much as I like,' said Gaspode.
'I can see that.'
'Sometimes I don't go home for, oh, days at a time.'
'Right?'
'Weeks, sometimes.'
'Sure.'
'But Gaspode whimpered a little.
'You want to be careful, you know. A young bitch like you can meet real trouble in this dog's city.'
They had reached the wooden jetty behind Hammer-hock's workshop.
'How d'you—' Angua paused.
There was a mixture of smells here, but the overpowering one was as sharp as a saw.
'Fireworks?'they're always so glad to see me when I do,' said Gaspode.'I thought you said you slept up at the University,' said Angua, as they dodged a cart in Rime Street.For a moment Gaspode smelled uncertain, but he recovered magnificently.'Yeah, right,' he said. 'We-ell, you know how it is, families . . . All them kids picking you up, giving you biscuits and similar, people pattin' you the whole time. Gets on yer nerves. So I sleeps up there quite often.''Right.''More often than not, point of fact.''Really?'
Monday 27 April 2009
Rene Magritte Homesickness
Rene Magritte HomesicknessArthur Hughes PhyllisFranz Marc Zwei KatzenFranz Marc yellow cow
brass plaque beside the gates said: The Ankh-Morpork Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons.
There was a small and hollow and pathetic dragon made out of papier-mache and holding a collection box, chained very heavily to the But they'd been thrown together like twigs in a whirlpool, and had yielded to the inevitable . . .
When he was a little boy, Sam Vimes had thought that the very rich ate off gold plates and lived in marble houses.
He'd learned something new: the very very rich could afford to be poor. Sybil Ramkin lived in the kind of poverty that was only available to the very rich, a poverty approached from the other side. Women who were merely well-off saved up and bought wall, and bearing the sign: Don't Let My Flame Go Out.This was where Lady Sybil Ramkin spent most of her days.She was, Vimes had been told, the richest woman in Ankh-Morpork. In fact she was richer than all the other women in Ankh-Morpork rolled, if that were possible, into one.It was going to be a strange wedding, people said. Vimes treated his social superiors with barely concealed distaste, because the women made his head ache and the men made his fists itch. And Sybil Ramkin was the last survivor of one of the oldest families in Ankh.
brass plaque beside the gates said: The Ankh-Morpork Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons.
There was a small and hollow and pathetic dragon made out of papier-mache and holding a collection box, chained very heavily to the But they'd been thrown together like twigs in a whirlpool, and had yielded to the inevitable . . .
When he was a little boy, Sam Vimes had thought that the very rich ate off gold plates and lived in marble houses.
He'd learned something new: the very very rich could afford to be poor. Sybil Ramkin lived in the kind of poverty that was only available to the very rich, a poverty approached from the other side. Women who were merely well-off saved up and bought wall, and bearing the sign: Don't Let My Flame Go Out.This was where Lady Sybil Ramkin spent most of her days.She was, Vimes had been told, the richest woman in Ankh-Morpork. In fact she was richer than all the other women in Ankh-Morpork rolled, if that were possible, into one.It was going to be a strange wedding, people said. Vimes treated his social superiors with barely concealed distaste, because the women made his head ache and the men made his fists itch. And Sybil Ramkin was the last survivor of one of the oldest families in Ankh.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)