Tag Archives: art

ROMANCE CLASSIC: LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT by Caniayah Cameus | GBAMLOG.COM

The day started like any other,I woke up,got dress,and walked to school. I walked to my locker and put my books inside,that’s when I heard a familiar voice call my name.It was my friend Addison,she waved at me as she walked closer.”Hey did you see the new kid?”she asked,I looked at her confused.I was about to ask her a question,when Jessica the school bully and her friends coming our way.I started to panic and tried to act normal,they passed me and walked up to Addison.”Hi,Addy.”Jessica said,she always gave everyone nicknames.Jessica continued,”Do you happen to have a extra dollar on you?”Addison looked at Jessica annoyed,she grabbed my hand and we walked away to our class.We sat in our chairs and waited for Ms.Eleanor to walk into the classroom,the bell rung as Ms.Eleanor walked in the classroom.”Good morning,everyone.”she said as we all said good morning to her.”Today is a exciting day,we have a new student coming to our class.Everyone meet Noah Dawson.”Then a boy,with a black hair,a red shirt and blue denim jeans walked inside the classroom.When I looked at Noah my heart pounded,it felt as if it might just come out of my chest.My hands were covered in sweat,and my face felt hot.Then Ms.Eleanor told Noah to sit next to me,I blushed and laid my head the desk to avoid seeing his face.The day passed quickly,and it was already time to leave.I walked to my locker to grab my textbooks,Addison had already left to go home,so I had to go alone.As I took by textbooks out of my locker,a familiar voice came from behind me.I turned to see Jessica and her friends looking at me,I tried to get away quickly,but one of her friends blocked my path.”Excuse,me but your in my way.”I said bravely trying to walk away,Jessica laughed at what I said as if it sounded amusing.”Sorry,but your friend didn’t give us our money.So you will have to pay for her instead.”she said,I looked at her and said,”I’m sorry,but I don’t have any money.”She looked at me seriously.”Well if you don’t have money,then let me have that pretty diamond necklace.”I grabbed my diamond necklace protectively and shouted,”No,this is my grandmother’s!”Jessica reached out her hand,and tried to grab my necklace.She was about the grab my necklace,when we heard a voice come from behind us.”Leave her alone.”,we all looked to see Noah standing there,seriously.Jessica and her friends looked at him annoyed,”We were just hanging out with our friend here.”she said with a fake smile on her face.Noah looked at her doubtfully and asked me if they were my friends,I blushed and said said no.He looked at Jessica and her friends and said,”If you don’t leave her alone then I will have to get the principal.”they looked at him nervously and walked away,as they left he smiled at me.”Your welcome.”he said as he opened his locker and grabbed his textbooks too.I blushed and said thank you,then he walked me to my house,as we walked and we made each other laugh.”Would it be ok,if we hang out sometime?”he asked as we stopped in the front of my house.”Sure,anytime.”I said smiling at him…

YOUNG ROMANCE: SILENT LOVE by Talha Ahmad | GBAMLOG.COM

She was looking at the glamorous flowers in the school garden. A boy from the same class as hers, noticed her and kept looking at her as she plucked a baby breath. She turned, caught a glimpse of him, and ran away blushing. She had had feelings for him ever since the start of their middle school, but always felt reluctant to confess them. One day to her surprise, he asked her to meet him tomorrow at the schoolyard. She came early and stood there for an hour until the school bell rang, but he never showed up. Days later, their instructor told them that Aaran was diagnosed with a rare disease and was getting treatment overseas, nobody knew the exact location though. This news struck her like lightning and left a void in her heart. She always used to wonder why Aaran wanted to meet her that day.
Years passed by, she studied hard and got a scholarship to study overseas. She still had feelings for him and hoped that she might get to see him again.
As she was walking in a garden full of wonders, she caught a glimpse of someone and instinctively ran after him. When she finally caught up, a shiver ran down her spine. It was him. The same man whom she was in love with all this time. That man recognized her, how could he not, he wanted to say I love you to her that day but didn’t get the chance and now that fate had brought them together again, without wasting a single moment.
He said, “I Love you, I’ve always had, ever since the day I first saw you with those baby’s breath.”
She gave a shriek of cry and said, “Me too.”
Drops of water started to fall, it was raining. The garden where they were, the flowers, the baby’s-breath bloomed. It was almost as if a scene from a dream. Nothing more, nothing less than a beautiful view. Without saying another word they just looked at each other smiling.
This time, they both plucked a baby breath.

ROMANCE FICTION: AN UNFINISHED PROJECT by Kresten Frosman | GBAMLOG.COM

When she suddenly heard the sound of  a car in her driveway, Amanda jumped from her chair at the kitchen table and ran over to the window. Now that’s punctuality, she thought as she leaned forward and saw a large white pickup truck that had stopped in front of her garage. The man she was watching climb out of his truck had told her that he would be there at four forty five and that was almost exactly what the clock on her phone was showing.
As she had been sitting at the table for the last ten minutes or so, sipping on a homemade smoothie, she had almost constantly been keeping her eyes on her phone, and its clock. What kind of mood would he be in when he showed up?, she had been anxiously wondering. Would he be annoyed because she had suggested that he hadn’t finished his job properly?
On the phone that morning he had sounded as happy as Amanda had hoped, but she knew that this could just be his professionalism.
By the look of his face now, as he was walking up the path to her house he didn’t seem to be the least annoyed, Amanda thought. On the contrary, he looked to her to be even more cheerful than he had the day before when he had spent almost the whole day in her garden installing her new water feature.
“Hi again, Warren,” Amanda said as she walked in her bare feet across the garden towards Warren who was already standing next to the fountain. “I’m so sorry I had to call you again, but I just don’t know how to do it myself.” It was a lie – especially the first part. Amanda hoped that she would be able to keep herself from laughing, unaccustomed as she was to lying.
“That’s quite alright,” Warren answered, sounding a little absent-minded as he was looking at the water that was slowly running down the sides of the fountain’s top tier. “I get calls like this all the time, trust me.” He looked at her and gave her a reassuring smile.
Oh, that smile again! Amanda thought as she felt the same tingle down her spine as she had the day before, every time she had seen it.
When a friend of hers had recommended Warren’s business for her water feature Amanda had not expected that the man who would install it would be attracting more of her attention than the fountain itself.

While Warren had been working in her garden the day before it had only been with great difficulty that Amanda had been able to concentrate on her own work at the computer – even with a looming deadline for a graphics project for her most important client. Again and again she had gone to the window in her study to watch how her new fountain was taking shape, and how its installer himself was shaped. She couldn’t decide which one of them was the more impressive work of art.
Several times she had gone out to talk to him, and to study him more closely. The fact that he didn’t have any rings on his fingers had made an equally great impression on her as the warmth in his eyes and the way he smiled.
She had been almost completely heartbroken when he had said goodbye and had left, just as she had come out again to offer him to try one of her smoothies. Unfortunately he had to rush to another appointment, he had told her.
I won’t let it end like this, Amanda had told herself.
“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Warren said, nodding his head. “The water does flow a little too fast, and I agree that it sounds a little noisy.” He put his hand up to his chin, and looked puzzled as he stared at the fountain. “But I’m pretty sure I adjusted the flow correctly yesterday.”
“Maybe it readjusted itself, on its own.” This time Amanda was unable to repress a little chuckle, and she was pleased to see that a small upwards curve appeared on Warren’s mouth as well.
“That’s what happened, I think,” he said turning his face towards her. “It happens all the time! But fortunately it’s an easy problem to fix.” He bent down and removed one of the cobbles on the ground that surrounded the fountain. The day before, just before he had left, he had done the same thing, showing her the electric device hidden under it. “This is where you adjust the flow.”
“Ah, right,” Amanda said, not adding that she remembered it very well. And certainly not mentioning that she had even seen the device on one more occasion after that. “But for all this extra trouble for you, at least let me offer you something to drink. I make great smoothies.”
Warren rose, and gave her a look that even exceeded what she had hoped for. “You know what? I would like that very much.”

ROMANCE: THE GIRL MADE OF GLASS by Ayush Kumar | GBAMLOG.COM

Heather stood 12.5 inches tall; she wasn’t colorless, as most of Kate’s friends would say (When Kate was a child); she was transparent…because she was made of glass. She would sit patiently throughout the day on Kate’s bookshelf, pretending to be a lifeless glass sculpture. She would occasionally slip between the pages of ‘Snow White and the seven dwarfs’ and would read through the book in one go; she liked Snow White but her favorite fairy tale was ‘The sleeping beauty’. There was a heart (also made of glass) embedded in her bosom, it was the only thing in her body that wasn’t transparent; it changed its color when someone touched her, red when she felt anger, yellow when she felt scared, green when she felt happy and blue when she felt sad.
All these years, her heart had been changing colors, but it’d never turned colorless…transparent. She knew her heart would only turn transparent when someone would touch her with true love; for love she knew, was pure…was transparent.
It wasn’t that Kate didn’t love her, she’d always treated her gently, but she’d always treated her like a toy…even though she knew Heather was special. Now, that Kate had grown up, she hardly even played with her.
One autumn afternoon, when Heather was gazing at the falling leaves through the slightly parted curtains, of the window near the bookshelf; she heard approaching footsteps, she became still. When the door opened she was relieved to see it was Kate, then her gaze fell upon the little thing galloping behind Kate; it was a boy made of glass mounting a horse, also made of glass. The boy was dressed in a transparent medieval jerkin and on his chest was a heart glowing in a greenish hue.
Kate cupped and gently put her hands next to Heather on the bookshelf; Heather stepped into the cup of Kate’s hands, her heart was glowing brilliant green, too.
Kate then brought Heather to the boy and his horse. Heather stood next to the boy, she didn’t know what to say but neither did the boy; he began whistling which made Heather look at him, who until then was looking at the floor (and everything else but the boy), and then he timidly extended his hand and said-
“I’m Peter,” then he smiled broadly.
Heather held his hand. Both their hearts turned transparent.

ROMANCE NON FICTION: MY CLASSMATE by Huaming An | GBAMLOG.COM

In China every student is assigned a desk to share with another student. Only in college where students move from classroom to classroom each lesson is this not so. People must have stories about their classmates they have shared desks with. Whether you like or not, someone there sitting beside you from every single sunrise to sunset.

Approximately twelve classmates I met, who once shared a desk with me, occupy the memory of my youth, each of which is like a treasure of mine, sneaking into my dreams occasionally, dragging me back to that extraordinary time and bringing tears to my eyes unwittingly. Among them, swallow, a nickname of a girl, was the last one.

She was my classmate but not the one sitting beside me at the very beginning. One rumour related to her, which I never care about, caused the teacher, who was responsible for this class, to decide to exchange her seat. So, she became the one sitting beside me. We were not well known to each other before, since she was as ordinary as other classmates to my mind. However, she became the unique one as time went by.

Pink T-shirt coupled with a skirt comprised her style in summer, this is how she always appears in my mind. Sweet smile with white neat teeth but one slightly askew was her mark. Tranquilly, elegantly and gently the way she sat could make the entire world silent, quiet and peaceful. No one, deeply with their heart, could help stopping being attracted by her, at least for me.

She was my classmate. The more I kept contact with her, the more I was fascinated by her. Good at English but not physics, she played a role of English tutor to me. Including her, A few girls sitting around me, were considered to be “live dictionaries”, since I am too lazy to check any English word myself. No fighting between us, no imaginary boundary separating us in the middle of the desk, we had a harmonious relationship which was abnormal since a girl and a boy always quarrel at that age as it seemed hard for them to make an agreement.

The farewell was in a gorgeous day, sunshine, a little breeze and amiable temperature, but I am sad. A small pack of plum candy was the last gift I gave her. Just as a piece of cloud floating away, she had gone and disappeared. People yearning for light in a deep dark night, flowers longing for rain and dew in severe droughty weather, I am missing her.

Although thirteen years past, she is still vivid in my mind, as the things happened yesterday. With a book under arm, sneaking to the classroom from the back door and quietly sitting beside her, I repeat it in almost every dream. I am missing her.

Considering herself as an elder sister of mine, smiling in a little bit smirk way, careful doing everything but in fact faltering sometimes, she was an ordinary girl whilst distinctive and unique. She has held all my heart those many years, resulting in no place for any other person. She was a disaster for me at that age.

With strong will, I can fulfill every dream through hard work. But like a boxer fighting in cotton, or birds flying in water, no matter what a strong will I have, I have little chance to capture her. Regardless of how wonderful she is, how sweet her smiles, and how elegant her postures, she, from the very beginning, is just not my destination.

TRUE MYSTERY: WALLPAPER by Ken DaSilva-Hill | GBAMLOG.COM

This is an absolutely true story, and I am telling it for the very first time.
I used to work as a fine art restorer and conservator, but my remit was far wider than just paintings and sculpture. As a specialist in contemporary art and specialist materials, my work involved everything from art to zoology through mosaics, kinetic art, electronics and lapidary. Over the course of nearly forty years I either restored or conserved for the future many works by world famous artists, many objects now on display in the worlds greatest museums and palaces, and also worked for many VIP’s and celebrities from rock and rollers to royalty.
There are many unusual stories that I could tell from these years but the following is probably the strangest and most intriguing, so here we go.
I was once called in to estimate for performing some restoration work in an eighteenth century private mansion in a very famous London square, not so very far from Harrods in Knightsbridge. The house is a large and imposing Georgian building over five floors, the typical ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ home which, in it’s heyday, employed a Butler, Footmen, Chef and myrid other servants to look after a large rich family who lived in opulent circumstances. Two world wars had thined out the residents of the house however, the toll of war is hard on family life and England had changed forever, it would never be the same again.
By the nineteen eighties of course, the butler and footmen had gone and the remaining family members were now reduced to actually working for a living, and largely looking after themselves, although still hanging on to their upper class ideals in many ways.
The house had been somewhat neglected, since world war two had left it with fewer family and staff, with the upkeep on these large london mansions being a huge millstone around the necks of the owners they scraped by with just the minimum of paid staff.
But, by the nineteen eighties there was some new money around, and the house was slowly being worked on, being refurbished and redecorated room by room.
The job that I was called in to look at involved a very large room which had originally been a ballroom. One could imagine the dances and ball’s that had once graced its interior, with the ladies wearing their finest clothes and the men in white tie and tails as they walzt the nights away.
This room had originally been very finely decorated with long brocade drapes at the tall wide windows, there was carved and gilded details to the scaglioni faux marble pillars, which were surmounted by gold leafed ceiling panels and architraves. It was absolutely splendid and in generally good condition if somewhat shabby.
The broad walls were hung with fine Chinese silk, this was stretched in the usual way over wooden lathes fixed to the wall beneath, the seams and joints carefully arranged to allow the design to flow across the wall without interuption. The skill which was needed to achieve this perfection is hard to describe, but one imagines a team of nineteenth century workers putting great craftmanship and not a little love into their work, to complete this effect of luxury. Sadly now as I looked, the silk was fadedd, loose in a few areas, dirty and stained in others and needing some new love to bring it back to life.
In cases like these, we conservators try hard to save everything possible, replace with new the minimum, and to treat the materials with great respect and reverance. We are like doctors looking at a fragile patient. We try to do no harm.
The light blue of the silk was now faded around the window reveals to a pleasant grey blue which set off the beautiful design of an oriental landscape, with small pavillions scattered across rock strewn gardens of cherry blossom and bamboo, reminiscent of that of fine porcelain.
Investigating the corner joints, I discovered that the vertical seams had been carefully inserted into slots cut into the wooden lathes and scured with narrow silk covered fillets. It would be fairly easy to release the silk from the frame, although great care would be needed in the full removal.
One wall seemed to have had a previous restoration, as the silk was somewhat looser in the stretch and part of the pictorial design did not quite match. I took reference photographs, made measurements of the wooden framing and many notes about the condition of the walls and wall coverings in regards to the windows and doorways.
Well, within a week an estimate was prepared, along with a working plan and materials list, and was submitted to the owners of the house. I heard no more for about eight months, in fact, just as I was giving up hope of ever getting the job.
Yes, we had the contract, we could go ahead as soon as we could arrange the work to fit in with our present commitments.
I visited the mansion again to make final arrangements, taking along a young lady conservator who was to do the preliminary work. She was delighted to be involved, and I had much faith in her ability to do an excellent job.
We started in early June, the weather in London was beautiful that year and the house was virtually ours, as both the family and their small staff had left for holidays in Italy. Only the hired caretaker remained, more of a live in security guard really, as his care taking duties were light, so we rarely saw him.
After a few days we had made inroads into removing the silk from two walls, each panel carefully photographed as it was taken down, whilst a condition report was prepared for future use, and diagrams made for the refitting.
At this point I was calłed away to an emergency situation in a gallery in the south of London, trying to save as much as I could from a fire which had ripped through after a poorly placed halogen spotlamp had set fire to a curtain. My assistant carried on at the mansion, I have always had full trust in her and was confodent that the job would go swimmingly.
Dealing with the fire damaged art was both messy and time consuming, but we got stuck into the job and concentrated on saving what we could.
A few days later, I recieved a frantic call from the office, could I go immediately to the mansion as there was some sort of problem, the reason was not stated as my assistant wanted to have me take charge of the situation.
I arrived early next day, and Lucy
asked me to come up to the ball room. She had removed almost all of the silk and the battens, carefully numbered were neatly stacked in the center of the dance floor. Only one wall of silk remained in place, the wall that had had evidence of earlier work. The other walls were now all cleaned of cobwebs and the light yellow of the plaster glowed in the sunlight from the windows.
Lucy had already told me that there was an unusual texture under the remaining silk, and now as I peeled it carefully back I could see that the wall was covered in a patchwork of small paper rectangles which had been distempered over. In some places there was evidence of mould and flaking of the surface.
We removed the remaining silk and battens, working carefully to do no damage to the wall beneath.
With the silk covering folded, and the battens numbered and stacked, we looked closer at the wall. In one section a paper rectangle was loose on the corner, so very gently and taking great care we gradually eased it away from the wall. It took nearly an hour to remove, but came away undamaged. On closer inspection it seemed to have something written upon it, but the distemper on one side and the thick mould on the other made it difficult to see. I placed it into an acid free envelope, and Lucy took it back to the workshop that evening, and handed it on to our paper restorer.
Two days passed, with me back at the fire scene, and Lucy having a short break with family. Then I got a call from the office, what did I want done with the fiver?
It turned out that after working on the paper rectangle for a couple of days, the paper restorer had discovered that under the mould and distemper, the rectangle was actually an old English white paper banknote. A five pound banknote!
I called Lucy, and put her in charge of removing the rest of the rectangles from the wall, and arranged for the paper restorer to be on hand to help with the job.
He set up a small on site workshop and lab in the ball room, so that each banknote could be processed on site. In total three and a half thousand five pound notes were removed from the wall. It took the best part of six months to process them, with only six being deemed to fragile to save. Of course, the family were delighted with our find, even more so when the notes, presented at The Bank of England, were paid out in full face value. Seventeen thousand pounds, had been pasted onto the wall, but by whom?
Various ideas were put forward, but we suspect that the notes had been pasted onto the wall either at the time of the Wall Street crash of 1928, or had been hidden away there at some time during world war two, possibly for safe keeping by a family member who subsequently sadly died in the conflict. Whatever, it made the present family extreemly happy to have an unexpected windfall of money, which would be worth in excess of a quarter of a million pounds in todays money, taking inflation into consideration.
Well there you are, a most unusual find and a most unusual true story.
So, next time you move house or redecorate, be careful how you remove the wallpaper or covering, because I suspect that this was not the only hoard of banknotes safely stored for the future in that way.

 

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MYSTERY CLASSICS: THE DEAD TALK TOO MUCH FOR MY TASTE by Jamie Ruff | GBAMLOG.COM

I was so desperate I took a job attending funerals. It’s not as goulash as it sounds. I would open and lock up the church after the funeral. In between, the minister would officiate and comfort the family, but he couldn’t be expected to arrive a couple of hours before the funeral and stay an hour or two after. I was usually there five hours. The pay was decent enough.

The saying is that dead men tell no tales, but they do; and those who attend their funerals tell even more. The departed and the attendees tell everything. His obituary will say he was a faithful husband, but why is his girlfriend sitting on the aisle across from the wife? If he was such a loving father why didn’t his oldest daughter show up, and why doesn’t someone mention her name? If he was such a good husband, why is his wife nearly dancing a jig? I think she killed him. She has the look of someone who has been relived of a burden.

Family and friends, they try to put the best face on the corpse, but I can see it – he, or she, lies right there for all to see; to examine if his illness or age wore away his strength and vitality like his weight. Gaunt faces; sunken eyes; drawn lips, even before they were sown together. Old wrinkled fingers that squeezed pennies or let opportunities slip away.

People want to talk at funerals, especially to someone who doesn’t know. That way they can share it as news to a stranger instead of the gossip it would be to a family member or friend; and if you judge, so what? You’re just some guy waiting for the punch to give out so that the family will go home, never to be seen again. One person tells you the departed’s every accomplishment, but, sooner or later, someone else tells you his faults – maybe not directly, but they will tell. The particulars about the dead are like advertisements for houses, there is far more there than is revealed and the truth is concealed between the lines. She loved children because she had none, and that was because she couldn’t conceive; he riled against abortions because the one he forced a girlfriend to have so long ago still haunted him; he gave generously to good causes but cheated his partner and stole the business; she loved life, but committed suicide; he will be buried beside a wife he was forced to have instead of the man he loved. They will share a headstone the size of a small northern state: beloved wife; beloved husband, it says.

I’m afraid for my own funeral. Not because I’ll be dead, but because all my secrets will be revealed to the stranger sitting in the back of the room waiting to wash out the punch bowl. Who does he think he is?