About
On January 1st, I challenged everyone in the deviantART community to suggest a lot of Daily Deviations. I did this for two main reasons: A) `
thorns told people to
put up or shut up and I decided to listen; B) I was tired of hearing people complain about supposed favoritism surrounding whose DD suggestions are accepted by the CVs.
Well, you all rose to the challenge beautifully.
Over 200 suggestions were sent into the CVs by the people that participated in my little challenge. The first featured work
pieces that received DDs, the second featured one half
of the rest of the suggestions and this article features the last half of the suggestions.
But first, our winners!
More than 40 people noted me with their suggestions in January and each suggestion earned them one entry into the drawing. Our top three suggesters were =
LadyofGaerdon, `
Exillior, and *
MaddalinaMocanu. Please give these ladies a round of applause!
I entered all of the names into a list at random.org and randomized the list ten times, picking the top name the first time, the second name the second time, and on and on. Here are the results:
=
LadyofGaerdon and `
JamminJo win 100
each.
~
LeRachParade, *
leyghan, `
Exillior, =
Bark, *
MaddalinaMocanu, and ~
Smirtouille,all win 50
each!
Remember - if you participate in all 12 challenges throughout this project you'll be entered into a drawing at the end of the year for a 1-year premium membership! So make sure to check out
February's Challenge: Critique!
Suggested Photography
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Suggested Literature
Ode to a Human NightingaleWhen Taylor & Hessey closed for the day, drawing down the blinds on their shop window, no one noticed a young man snatching one of the books from the shelf and secreting it in his great coat. Nor did they notice him slip out the back door into an alleyway filled with the char and tar of London, his eyes swivelling to both sides. Fleet St was busy; the horses trotted down the road with carriages bouncing on the most delicate of axles whilst rank sweat and horse manure intertwined in a stench that overpowered the scent of the evening breeze. Everyone was shouting, their voices tussling with each other as the street groaned under hundreds of fee
YellowMy parents bought a little two-bedroom house when they first got married. It was run down, falling apart, but most importantly: cheap.
Two years later, my mother fell pregnant with me. She immediately abandoned her job for some plaster and paint and set about decorating the untouched spare room. She splashed pastel yellow across the walls, replaced the dingy carpet and kitted out the room with furniture.
Sixteen years after my birth, and the yellow paint is flaking off the walls revealing the kiwi green beneath. I can peel back the corners of the carpet to reveal the worn underlay and half rotten floorboards. I can examine the fringe of my
Dirge I- The Sun Said to ChicagoThe Sun said to Chicago,
"Oh land of sad, sad stone-"
That is all I heard, as the radiance
Was devoured by the continuingcloud
The sun does not shine in Chicago.
I saw many faces here
Who would've been sad,
But they were empty instead.
I saw two silvery ghosts, deer,
Convene in an empty lot.
They conversed, in Silvan tongues,
"Shall we leave then?"
"Yes- the grass is losing here.
The trees are dead, the stones are
Slaves
To the hands of the empty."
The city's metro wurms squirm;
They are infesting the ground.
They scream, unlike the silent dying
Of Novum Eboracum, Screaming
They are
I am eight years old.I am eight years old.
My lips are perfectly pink. They don't need to look glossy or tinted redder. My cheeks don't need this, either. My eyes stand out well enough on their own without being lined with black paint. The mascara weighs on my lashes and makes me tired and itchy. This shit on my eyelids shouldn't be there, either.
That was a bad word. I am afraid to say bad words, but I've got a few in my head. My friend told me that the word "bitch" means "female dog," but I think she's wrong. I don't think I've ever heard it used in this context. Actually, I think it's a word for people like you. I say this to you with my eyes. You
Folie a PlusieursFOLIE Á PLUSIEURS; OR, THE PARABLE OF THE MADMEN
The following is a manifesto of my memories, and relevant documents which demonstrate the plight of my city as it tore itself apart; not as a result of social or ethnic divisions, but because of its faith. Let this document be an example to those who read it; that God is dead in the hearts of those who fight for him. In Everingham - “God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.”
Matthew Branson,
Mayor of Everingham, Sydney.
ACT I: THE LAND OF TWO MINDS
[ See accompanying graphic here: http://explodingdog.deviantart.com/art/Act-1-134922606 ]
In today’s world,
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Philosophy of Art, Ae....Philosophy of art, aesthetics and creativity – Major essay – Nietzsche, Tolstoy & Bell
The elusive nature of artistic, aesthetic, and creative endeavor has always been integral to philosophical debate. Three of the principal philosophers to have tackled these subjects are Friedrich Nietzsche, Leo N. Tolstoy and Clive Bell. Each presents a distinctly individual approach to these seemingly intangible areas of discussion. In doing so, they deal with questions regarding how art is defined, what its origin and functions are, what beauty is, and what value art possesses. Nietzsche contends that art contains two core distinctions; great
The Imperfection of Style 1. Introduction
When you sit down to read a piece written by Baudelaire you do not expect Dickinson sentimentality, nor a Shakespearean wit or Poe's possessiveness with phonetically eeriness. You do expect a Baudelaire experience. But what is a Baudelaire experience? What makes Baudelaire a Baudelaire in comparison with Poe - is it the tonality, details, sentiment, or maybe the vocabulary, sentence construct or themes; Might it be the concepts, or maybe a certain point of view or an angle? Can you create your own style by analytical and critical thinking, learning the hypothetical curve and scale of those degrees, or by comparing differ
Floating AloneCan they really see me?
I feel like a ghost, swooping silently across the streets. I pass through them, unnoticed.
The days are long and repetitive, and often finish like this. School is tragically monotonous and no one seems to notice me. The machine at the front of the class makes noises and passes out sheets. The other students, the other machines; they interact with it, asking questions and receiving answers, inputting their completed work and occasionally pushing its buttons. But not me. I complete the tasks but the sheet passes through my hands, onto the floor to be crushed and forgotten. My hand drifts up and I wail like a banshee fo
I heard 'apart', were you talking about legs?I don't understand
Can you say that again?
Except this time
Without any clothes on
Of Kings and CartographersWe can overhear the whispered conversations
From across the busy street
Strewn with the bit-off ends of storms and cons
That they cling to so desperately
The flooded street which ferries
The discarded briefcases and sins
Through the maze of veins and gateways
The sacred street which carries
Precious life blood through the veins and gateways
Forking off to Heaven and Hell
Now, what about you?
There you are, brushing shoulders
With the coated figures marching to
The drums of war on judgment day
The meek, the wounded, the soulless
And there you are, struggling to earn your place in line
We can overhear the words exchange
avalanche.The Ogre rises up among its brother and sister peaks, the Monk and the Virgin, a craggy limestone buttress looming above most of the north-eastern part of the Bernese Alps.
The Eiger: 13,042 feet of sheer rock, cracks and treacherous ice-fields.
Many attempts to scale this uncompromising weather-battered mountain have been made over the years, but successful attempts didn't begin until 1938, with the brave perseverance of a team of four German climbers. As a twenty-year-old eager climber myself, I knew all the facts. The windswept North Face (Nordwand) was the height of all climbing careers when I'd been growing up. 1952 - the great year of
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The FountainThere were sixteen tall windows. She'd counted them over and over when she was small, her chubby finger outstretched as she spun in tiny circles. Eight walls, sixteen windows, thirty-two black curtains—the arithmetic of her childhood.
"Eight window seats, Daddy. Eight buttons on each—sixty-four. I counted."
The fountain stood dry and dead-center in the middle of the black and white tiles. Eight sides, eight lion-mouth spouts. Sixteen limestone mermaids poised gracefully around the edge. Four thousand and ninety-six blue tiles. Five hundred and twelve white.
And two doors. Always the two doors, huge and solid and radiating a sense
Death of a reasonInsusceptible, he lived
during the early hours of
eleven to four.
he was stubborn- he knew how to
treat a lady well but
realised waiting on people
wasn't an obligation.
I heard he found reconcilation
in chasing ghosts and
loving brittle things
he could not grasp.
I loved him from the day he left.
Absence fosters such
sentimental souls.
living hand to mouth on
our theoretical timezones,
two-liner niceties draw static-
I'm left to conversations with dial tones.
He was a missing thumb and forefinger,
He was a romance of misguided placebos.
He was a riot of compromised words,
He was a prayer spat out across fingers.
The love of a Brother and SisterThe small fights. When your brother would hit you when you were little and you would run to your mom and tell her what he did. Your mom would take his side because he was mommy's little prince. Then you would pout, make a face, cross your arms angrily and say "I'm not talking to you" and run to daddy and tell him your side of the story. He would always take your side because you were daddy's little princess. Then all four of you would have a fun little argument where you and your older brother would fight and acuse eachother and in the end you kids would decide you wont talk to eachother ever again in your whole life and your parents, wi
Little Golden BirdYou're out for a walk on a beautiful, sunny afternoon, just doing whatever it is you like to do when you're out for a walk, when you find a tiny yellow bird sitting alone on the ground. Maybe you pity the little thing, maybe you want to know what it's doing there all by itself. Whatever the reason, you decide to pick it up. The little yellow bird is cold and limp in your hands. Maybe it's somehow injured itself, or maybe it was out having its own little walk in the sun and got lost. So you hold it close and stroke its feathers to warm it up. The little bird seems to like you, so you take it home to live with you. You feed it and bathe it and
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milky waywe're buying ink and re
tracing our footsteps on
the icy roads that might
teach us how to come
home (when we are
ready).
we'll search for the right
colors to stain our hands with
because the milky way was
never stronger than our
glass fingernails, and we
could make shapes in the
fabric of darkness better
than constellations ever
did, and something occurs
to me when we
are staring at the
galaxy of our fingers inter-
twining, we are bigger than
solar systems and broken
space shuttles, more
vast even than the slow
vibratos of
light fixtures and
bits of justice.
strawberriesdrops of rain explode
into colors on your outstretched hands,
blossoming as roses
like bright ripe strawberries.
and when you roam enchanted gardens,
nothing is ever as it seems…
one moment a blade of grass
and the next one of many feathers
on the wing of a bird
about to take flight.
no matter how you try
gravity is wiser,
and you are bound to come down from the clouds.
millions of heartbeats like yours
all search for the same thing
and will find each other someday.
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bulletproofspiders stitch me a softer melody
as they knit back up my veins;
i feel their gossamer threads
sink into my vessels,
small ships in my blood
as they set out for sea.
i do not know which home
is now meant for me.
i am a back to the door,
spine burrowing
into woodwork
so that i do not fall,
unseeing,
into anything endless.
lying about in the dark,
we are new blooms;
humans like flowers
as we find our new roots
in new soil
and hope to find love.
the comfort of lavender
transcends sleep.
city air like projections,
silhouettes sketched
on the world's white walls,
it billows under my skirts
and i feel that, now,
i can
f
Number Game
2 + 2 = 5? ~~~
so you ask me to play
the number game with
you.
it'll
be
reciprocal, you say,
Suggested Digital Art
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Suggested Traditional Art
Thank you!
To everyone who participated and promoted - a very big thank you! And to our wonderful Community Volunteers who help feature beautiful work in the community - your dedication and time are most sincerely appreciated.
I hope that everyone will continue to suggest work for Daily Deviations because it makes the work for CVs much easier. Plus, it is a a lot of fun!
FAQ #61: What is a Daily Deviation? FAQ #18: Who selects Daily Deviations and how are they chosen?FAQ #84: What are the Core Values of the Community Relations and Operations Departments?Lili
`anmari has been spreading her infectious positivity throughout our community for over 6 years. Throughout this time Ana has been at the core of all things devious, passionately developing an eclectic gallery, helping organise devmeets, participating in chat events and also recently completed dedicating her time as a Community Volunteer. We are absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2013 to `anmari, congratulations! Read More
Sta.sh
The contest deadline has been extended to June 10th! There will be no further extensions, so get your entries in ASAP!
You must be a member of #SolutionsSanctuary to enter. All join requests are automatically accepted.
All entries must be created specifically for this contest (uploaded on or after May 10th).
Visual Art 
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with the subject "Demonstrably Deviant".
This article’s deviant spotlight: featuring the talented ~anapests-and-ink. She has offered to answer a few questions as well, to tell us a bit about what inspires her writing and which piece in particular she favors.
r-rly--
w-well thanksss >///A///<