Silhouette Picture Quotes

The cawing of a big, black crow awoke me early the next morning, but I remained still, pretending to be asleep. I didn’t want to see Ibrahim in the light of day, and I didn’t want to make more small talk. I felt hunger pains through the remnants of champagne and cognac from the night before. I wondered why I hadn’t eaten more, feeling silly about having been so insecure about my culinary etiquette. Numb and void of emotion, I remained in a state of suspended animation reliving the events of our night of passion. The night before, I pictured silhouettes of angels dancing upon the ceiling in the moonlight, not disconnected bodies lying beneath the covers at a loss for words.

If ever there was a more perfect picture of love, it was the silhouette of this couple standing at the window with the full moon behind them in a star filled sky.

He was little more than a silhouette, a simplified portrait of a nobleman. A picture of what someone should be, not what they were.

She looks at the Dictaphone in my hand. “Are you recording this?” “No, Alex, I was summarizing a deposition.” “How can you work?” “How can you see a movie? How can you have a friend over?” She looks away. Half of the room is bright from my lamp. The other side is dark, the sharp silhouette of the mountain framed by the window running across the room. The image always reminds me of a panoramic picture.

silhouettes of your imagination splashes of a picture on a magazine Is there a mind behind the face? if you met your dream, would you think their human heart could be erased? So you say you love an icon, a hero you’ve never met And when you saw them for a moment even on t.v. it’s their image you can’t forget Remember when you had me there? tell me, if you had me now Would you try to be more amusing or would you ask me if i was teasing when i hold you in my arms on the silver screen / you didn’t know i was real / and now-i’m just a dream- Burnt - Here

Erin. “No matter what else has happened, you’re water and your element is welcome in our circle, but we don’t need any negative energy here—this is too important.” I nodded to the spiders. Erin’s gaze followed mine and she gasped. “What the hell is that?” I opened my mouth to evade her question, but my gut stopped me. I met Erin’s blue eyes. “I think it’s what’s left of Neferet. I know it’s evil and it doesn’t belong at our school. Will you help us kick it out?” “Spiders are disgusting,” she began, but her voice faltered as she glanced at Shaunee. She lifted her chin and cleared her throat. “Disgusting things should go.” Resolutely, she walked to Shaunee and paused. “This is my school, too.” I thought Erin’s voice sounded weird and kinda raspy. I hoped that meant that her emotions were unfreezing and that, maybe, she was coming back around to being the kid we used to know. Shaunee held out her hand. Erin took it. “I’m glad you’re here,” I heard Shaunee whisper. Erin said nothing. “Be discreet,” I told her. Erin nodded tightly. “Water, come to me.” I could smell the sea and spring rains. “Make them wet,” she continued. Water beaded the cages and a puddle began to form under them. A fist-sized clump of spiders lost their hold on the metal and splashed into the waiting wetness. “Stevie Rae.” I held my hand out to her. She took mine, then Erin’s, completing the circle. “Earth, come to me,” she said. The scents and sounds of a meadow surrounded us. “Don’t let this pollute our campus.” Ever so slightly, the earth beneath us trembled. More spiders tumbled from the cages and fell into the pooling water, making it churn. Finally, it was my turn. “Spirit, come to me. Support the elements in expelling this Darkness that does not belong at our school.” There was a whooshing sound and all of the spiders dropped from the cages, falling into the waiting pool of water. The water quivered and began to change form, elongating—expanding. I focused, feeling the indwelling of spirit, the element for which I had the greatest affinity, and in my mind I pictured the pool of spiders being thrown out of our campus, like someone had emptied a pot of disgusting toilet water. Keeping that image in mind, I commanded: “Now get out!” “Out!” Damien echoed. “Go!” Shaunee said. “Leave!” Erin said. “Bye-bye now!” Stevie Rae said. Then, just like in my imagination, the pool of spiders lifted up, like they were going to be hurled from the earth. But in the space of a single breath the dark image reformed again into a familiar silhouette—curvaceous, beautiful, deadly. Neferet! Her features weren’t fully formed, but I recognized her and the malicious energy she radiated. “No!” I shouted. “Spirit! Strengthen each of the elements with the power of our love and loyalty! Air! Fire! Water! Earth! I call on thee, so mote it be!” There was a terrible shriek, and the Neferet apparition rushed forward. It surged from our circle, breaking over Erin

Millet's Sower is an invented sower who is burdened with the artist's thoughts; he is but a creeping shadow on a ploughed field which is only a field of the imagination. Another peasant ploughs near the horizon with his oxen, or rather there is a silhouette plough with motionless animal silhouettes, in front of a sky of canvas in which birds cut out of paper attempt to flap their immovable wings. In Vincent's picture a peasant strides across his field, you can feel the very substance of the air. The strength of his motion carries you with him. Hundreds of sowers were embodied in one figure. He strides along, not for you, not for art, not for Van Gogh, but for his work, with every nerve stretched to its purpose and every limb and every rag on his body forming part of his action. The field is ready to receive the seed. There he ploughs, here he sows, and in the background the ploughing still continues. Not a detail in the action is left obscure or isolated. The animals, the earth, the man, everything is but a part of growth, and the air is heavy with the coming harvest. He strides there, not for to-day or to-morrow, but as he strode a thousand years ago as a peasant of Provence, as a Greek, or as a tiller of the soil of Egypt. Sowing is the symbol of eternity.

ombre /ɔ̃bʀ/ I. nm (poisson) grayling II. nf 1. (ombrage) shade • 30° à l'~ | 30° in the shade • rester à l'~ | to stay in the shade • à l'~ d'un figuier | in the shade of a fig tree • l'arbre (nous) fait or donne de l'~ | the tree provides shade • tu leur fais de l'~ | (lit) you're (standing) in their light; (fig) you're putting them in the shade • à l'~ de qn/qch (fig) (tout près) near sb/sth; (protégé par) under the protection of sb/sth • rester dans l'~ de qn | to be in sb's shadow 2. (forme portée) shadow • faire/projeter des ~s sur le mur | to make/cast shadows on the wall • avoir peur de son ~ | to be scared of one's own shadow • suivre qn comme une ~ | to be sb's shadow • n'être plus que or être l'~ de soi-même | to be the shadow of one's former self voir aussi: proie 3. [liter] (pénombre) darkness 4. (anonymat, clandestinité) • peintres réputés ou dans l'~ | renowned or obscure painters • laisser certains détails dans l'~ | to be deliberately vague about certain details • agir dans l'~ | to operate behind the scenes • rester dans l'~ | [manipulateur] to stay behind the scenes; [poète] to remain in obscurity; [détail] to be left vague • combattants de l'~ | underground fighters 5. [liter] (trace) hint • une ombre de moustache a hint of a moustache • l'~ d'un reproche/d'un accord | a hint of reproach/of an agreement • une ~ de regret/tristesse passa dans son regard | a shadow of regret/a look of sadness crossed his/her face • sans l'~ d'un doute | without a shadow of a doubt • sans l'~ d'une preuve | without the slightest shred of evidence 6. • l'~ (procédé) shading [u] • faire des ~s | to shade 7. (silhouette indécise) shadowy figure • le royaume or séjour des ~s | the Kingdom of the Shades III. Idiomes 1. mettre qn/être à l'ombre○ | (euph) to put sb/be behind bars (familier) 2. marcher à l'ombre○ | to keep out of the limelight 3. l'homme qui tire plus vite que son ombre | the fastest gun in the West 4. passer comme une ombre | to be ephemeral 5. courir après une ombre | to chase rainbows 6. il y a une ombre au tableau | there is only one thing wrong 7. jeter une ombre au tableau | to spoil the picture (fig) 8. la seule ombre au tableau | the only snag

He knew, pulling out of the driveway with tears tracking down his cheeks and the black silhouette still standing out on the porch in the early morning light, that he would always love him. He knew he would find a picture of them one day, when he was old and wrinkled and needed help getting up and down the stairs, and he would still love him. He would show someone the picture, and they would say, in that placating voice people used on old people: he sure was handsome . Yes, Adam would agree, he sure was . He hoped he could smile as he said it. Looking back on it all, he would wonder what it might have been like. 70 years totaled out to something around 25,000 mornings. 25,000 perfect mornings with warm skin and hot coffee, the early sun drenching them in gold. In a different life, he could have been the one to find Ronan’s first wrinkle, just a crinkle in the corners of his eyes.

The brilliant colors and geometric patterns, like a sheen of oil atop a dark puddle, grew more intense as he slid away. Pictures of the world shot through his brain.  He moved his fingers, and he felt the cold stillness of a timeless sky.  Bewildering alien landscapes flickered in and out of view.  Then, he recognized what the landscapes were: insane fractals, never-ending and chaos-infused form.  It was a world somehow constructed or rooted upon the fractal pattern.  As he gazed through his mind’s eye, there was movement far off.  The images changed to pictures of people—more like silhouettes at dusk than clear people, but he felt with certainty that they had been like him once.

Liliana stood staring at the posters, filling in the dark silhouettes with worn, grey faces. She imagined her mother, eyes dark and vacant and staring back at her from her place among the other disappeared. She pictured her not as a still photograph but as a moving image, trapped within the silhouette and trying to break free.

The second one is of him looking up at me, and there’s a look of undeniable happiness on our faces. The final picture is of us in silhouette, kissing with the sun setting behind us.

But I was stuck for a long time by myself at Abraham Lincoln's portrait, standing in the middle of the huge hall as people moved all around me with mostly children. I felt as if time had stopped as I watched Lincoln, facing him, while watching the woman’s back as she was looking out the window. I felt wronged, so much like Truman from the movie, standing there in the middle of the museum alone. I was wondering what would Abraham Lincoln do if he realized he was the slave in his own cotton fields, being robbed by evil thieves, nazis. I had taken numerous photos of Martina from behind, as well as silhouettes of her shadow. I remember standing there, watching as she stood in front of the window; it was almost as if she was admiring the view of the mountains from our new home, as I did take such pictures of her, with a very similar composition to that of the female depicted in the iconic Lincoln portrait looking outwards from the window. I hadn't realized how many photographs I snapped of Martina with her back turned towards me while we travelled to picturesque places. Fernanda and I walked side-by-side in utter silence, admiring painting after painting of Dali's, without exchanging a single word. Meanwhile, Luis and Martina had got lost somewhere in the museum. When I finally found her, she was taking pictures outside of the Rainy Cadillac. We both felt something was amiss without having to say it, as Fernanda knew things I didn't and vice versa. We couldn't bring ourselves to discuss it though, not because we lacked any legal authority between me and Martina, but because neither Fernanda or myself had much parental authority over the young lady. It felt like when our marriages and divorces had dissolved, it was almost as if our parenting didn't matter anymore. It was as if I were unwittingly part of a secret screenplay, like Jim Carrey's character in The Truman Show, living in a fabricated reality made solely for him. I was beginning to feel a strange nauseous feeling, as if someone was trying to force something surreal down my throat, as if I were living something not of this world, making me want to vomit onto the painted canvas of the personalised image crafted just for me. I couldn't help but wonder if Fernanda felt the same way, if she was aware of the magnitude of what was happening, or if, just like me, she was completely oblivious, occasionally getting flashes of truth or reality for a moment or two. I took some amazing photographs of her in Port Lligat in Dali's yard in the port, and in Cap Creus, but I'd rather not even try to describe them—they were almost like Dali's paintings which make all sense now. As if all the pieces are coming together. She was walking by the water and I was walking a bit further up on the same beach on pebbles, parallel to each other as we walked away from Dali's house in the port. I looked towards her and there were two boats flipped over on the two sides of my view. I told her: “Run, Bunny! Run!

And then… Oh my. She realized why his silhouette had been off. The man was buck naked. Pressed against her. He’d swam naked from the galley. Picturing that, with maybe his ankle-knife clutched between his teeth, had her unable to emit another sound for quite a while.

Youth Shadows settle on the place, that you left. Our minds are troubled by the emptiness. Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time. From the perfect start to the finish line. And if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones. 'Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs. Setting fire to our insides for fun Collecting names of the lovers that went wrong The lovers that went wrong. We are the reckless, We are the wild youth Chasing visions of our futures One day we'll reveal the truth That one will die before he gets there. And if you're still bleeding, you're the lucky ones. 'Cause most of our feelings, they are dead and they are gone. We're setting fire to our insides for fun. Collecting pictures from a flood that wrecked our home, It was a flood that wrecked this home. And you caused it, And you caused it, And you caused it Well I've lost it all, I'm just a silhouette, I'm a lifeless face that you'll soon forget, And my eyes are damp from the words you left, Ringing in my head, when you broke my chest. Ringing in my head, when you broke my chest. And if you're in love, then you are the lucky one, 'Cause most of us are bitter over someone. Setting fire to our insides for fun, To distract our hearts from ever missing them. But I'm forever missing him. And you caused it, And you caused it, And you caused it