Lover of Christ, art, all things new and old, challenge and growth, and the power of the spoken word.
Following
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"The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act:
not his to worship the great Artefact,
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind."JRR Tolkien - Mythopoeia (Excerpt)♥ 1 -
Happy Birthday Mom!!!
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To My Dearest Friends Who In The Summer Are Not Near Enough,
You Are Always Loved And Missed.
(via typewrittenword)
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Bankrupt without love. 1 Corinthians 12 (Message Translation). Designed by Stephen Murrill (@thesteveandrew).
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Th Mystery of Christ
Christ has died.
Christ has risen.
Christ will come again.
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Laying in Wait
A simple stab and Surrealism. Reflecting the barrenness of the land of Glomb and how that is taken on by Orual as Psyche is taken from her.
(Til We Have Faces - Creative Project No. 3)
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In the Light the Palace Parishes
Using the deconstructionalist nature of Abstract Expressionism to reflect the mood and chaos of the landscapes upheaval as Psyche lights the lamp in Til We Have Faces.
(Til We Have Faces - Creative Project No. 2)
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Til We Have Faces - Creative Project
It was already twilight and there was much mist in the valley. The pools of the river as I went down to it to drink (for I was thirsty as well as cold) seemed to be dark holes in the greyness. And I got my drink, ice cold, and I thought it steadied my mind. But would a river flowing in the gods’ secret valley do that, or clean contrary? This is another of the things to be guessed. For when I lifted my head and looked once more into the mist across the water, I saw that which brought my heart into my throat. There stood the palace, grey - as all things were grey in that hour and place- but solid and motionless, wall within wall, pillar and arch and architrave, acres of it, a labyrinthine beauty. Has she had said, it was like no house ever seen in our land or age. Pinnacles and buttresses leaped up -no memories of mine, you would think, could help me to imagine them -unbelievably tall and slender, pointed and prickly as if stone were shooting out into branch and flower. No light showed from any window. It was a house asleep.
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