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The theme this week is "art made with paints and brushes and multimedia."
Today's AWAD is "trompe l'oeil". Please scroll down.
The AWAD for Day 1 is "chiaroscuro":
A good painting requires a good light
To set the illusion in flight.
If it needs more 3D
There's a fix, happily.
Chiaroscuro will make it just right.
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Collage is a mixture of art,
An amalgam both avant and smart.
An image from here
Is juxtaposed there
And the whole thing looks - blown apart.
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Bravo, Plutarch, outstanding! But I wonder, is it good for my cardio-vascular system for me to suddenly laugh out loud at 5:55 in the morning? 
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Thanks, themilum -- I guess. But this is supposed to be serious art, you know.
BTW does this mean I am up for the First Prize bottle -- assuming no-one else posts a limerick this week, of course.
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Oh what the hell, Plutarch, I just drank my last can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and I'm still thirsty so I think I'll go ahead and award you the prize for second place notwithstanding the fact that your poems are so far the only poems in the contest this week. Anyway... Ladies and Gentlemen. It is my immediate pleasure to award Mr. Plutarch
the prize for the best second place poem of the week, the Annastrophic
- a wonderful 2002 Paul Pillot, Les Mazures white burgundy
correctly priced at $37 a bottle with great clarity
and excellent depth but with a strong tannin aftertaste
and a sharp to bitter acidic bite. [89 points] Ok, now I have set out two clean glasses...
Cheers and congratulations, Plutarch, drink up! 
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Who would yearn for a painting grisaille
Monochrome, usually gray, and so pale?
A person whose life
Overtaken by strife
Is yearning to pass through the veil.
Note: Winning Prize Two in a field of one has put me in a very grave mood, themilum. :(
I'm anxious to find out whose face is on the Prize One bottle, themilum, so I'm providing a deserving verse to capture the honor:
And when like her, O Sáki, you shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in your blissful errand reach the spot
Where I made One—turn down an empty Glass.
Rubáiyát. Stanza ci.
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There is art you can make with hot air Blown on wax, it's a bit of a scare. Waxy hues, dripping hotNow look what you've got!Molten beauty encaustic and rare. Examples of "encaustic" [per Anu]: http://www.encaustic.com/photopost/
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Plutarch wrote...
________________________________________________________
I'm anxious to find out whose face is on the Prize One bottle, themilum, so I'm providing a deserving verse to capture the honor:
And when like her, O Sáki, you shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in your blissful errand reach the spot
Where I made One—turn down an empty Glass.
_______________________________________________________
Even you, Plutarch, I did not think would stoop to abject plagiarism to win a prize. [sigh]
Ok, Plutarch I got your prize...you win the Maverick, a spoof of refined English sensibilities and your prize is a booby prize.
No no not that kind of booby, but a booby prize resurrected from a more honest past, back when is was considered ok to point out that people on occasion could act poorly and be deserving of public ridicule.
As winner of the Maverick Award your prize is a six pack of Colt 45 Malt Liquor. A totally American beer that even the roughest of men consider undrinkable.
So here's to you, Plutarch, congratulations and drink up!
And I must confess that it will be hard for me to drink a whole six-pack of Colt 45 this morning before breakfast, Colt 45 is not a beer that one would say is user-friendly, but believe me, Plutarch, you deserve it.
Cheers.
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I am speechless with the honor, themilum. But I think you're being a little hard on Colt 45 Malt Liquor which is an acquired taste for the rough and ready. Colt 45 reminds me of Colonel Colt: The Lord made some men large and some men small.
But Colonel Colt made all men equal.Colt 45 is the gun that won the West. It recalls a time when "the fastest gun" ruled the West, that is, until he came up against someone faster, which explains why all the "fast guns" died young; or until they were bushwacked by a gang or gunned down by a lone backshooter in a hard drinkin' saloon. The "Maverick Award" is suitably named, themilum, but I'm not sure maverick will think so. His tastes, like yours, are too refined. Or perhaps you named the Award after the maverick horse* which still runs wild in the West? In that case, your choice will be lauded by all, themilum. [Not just by me. :) ] * Does the fact that we have any horses left out there in the wild really matter? How many of these folks have ever even seen a herd of wild horses other than on television, or pictures in the paper or a magazine? Would it make a difference? I think it would. So, since the chances are that you reading this will probably never get to see it for yourself, let me try to share with you what it is like. The best way to see wild horses is on the back of a horse, so put yourself in the saddle mentally for awhile, and try to imagine it as I describe it for you. Sitting out there on the open plains, you know they are coming because first of all, your horse senses them long before you do. He begins to paw the ground, raise his head up and starts to snort. The air seems to stir as if by magic, and swells up all around you. You can taste the dirt in your mouth.
Then you feel it. You feel the ground start to tremble up underneath you. You quickly dismount so you can stand on terra firma, and feel it direct, first through your boots, then up your legs into the trunk of your body, and finally up to your heart which has already begun to pound hard in expectation of what you are about to see.
Then you hear them. First the pounding of their hooves. Then the sound of their voices, the stallions calling out to their mares and offspring, then them calling to one another, giving out directions. By this time, they start to come into view, and the sound is almost unearthly yet so connected at the same time.
Now they are upon you and they gallop past with flying hooves and manes, glistening in the sun, muscles rippling, stirring up clouds of dust, and you see something unrivalled in God's creation, a creature so powerful, so beautiful, so mystical you feel like you are getting a glimpse of a part of God Himself.
You stand transfixed, moved by the sight. Your own horse stands in quiet reverence with you as you witness the spectacle together. Then the sounds die away and the earth quiets down once again. All that is left now is a disappearing trail of dust and the sensations of a unique experience of nature at its most awesome.
It vibrates with you the rest of the day, sometimes for several days. You never forget it. You never get used to it. It has not changed since the first time I saw them when I was 10 years old, and I am an old cowboy now, nearing 60. Does it really matter if we destroy them? Does it matter whether or not they are out there any more when most Americans will never see them? Does it really matter how we get rid of them?
I believe it does. The idea of rounding up our wild horses up and sending them to the slaughter house where they will be butchered for some foreigner to eat – just writing the words – seems to me to be about as tragic a loss and betrayal as there is.http://www.fund4horses.org/info.php?id=473
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I am speechless with the honor, themilum. Ah yes, Plutarch, that was what I intended. But then you keep talking....about horses and values and whether or not we should ship our horses overseas for people less skittish than ourselves to eat. Yes Plutarch, I agree with everything you say, and I will defend to my death my right to ask you not to say it.
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OK, if wild horses are worth more as meat on the table than they are as a living tableau, what do you think of birds?Avian race anything but birdbrains, scientists find
Cognitive behavior rivals even chimps, recent studies showDavid Perlman, SF Chronicle Science Editor Monday, February 7, 2005 Parrots can chat with humans, pigeons can tell a Picasso painting from a Monet and, in the Galapagos islands, Darwin's finches can spear insects with tools they make from cactus spines -- but, contrary to what scientists have long believed, none of them is acting merely on blind instinct or unconscious responses to training.
What those birds are doing, instead, is being smart -- displaying "complex cognitive behavior" as modern brain researchers call it. The new understanding comes from a recent series of experiments and comparative studies of the brain structures of birds, humans and other mammals.
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The nasty word "birdbrain," in the group's thinking, is an arrogant, human-coined insult to an avian race that evolved more than 50 million years after mammals first crept, crawled and stood on the world's stage -- and to the bird brains, which have apparently been evolving even more rapidly than mammalian brains ever since.http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2005/02/07/MNGM5B71N01.DTL&type=scienceM-W: Main Entry: tab·leau Pronunciation: 'ta-"blO, ta-'blO Function: noun Inflected Form(s): plural tab·leaux /-"blOz, -'blOz/; also tableaus Etymology: French, from Middle French tablel, diminutive of table, from Old French 1 : a graphic description or representation : PICTURE <winsome tableaux of old-fashioned literary days -- J. D. Hart> 2 : a striking or artistic grouping 3 [short for tableau vivant (from F, literally, living picture)] : a depiction of a scene usually presented on a stage by silent and motionless costumed participants
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Trompe l'oeil is art so deceiving
You could bump into it upon leaving
Through a doorway
Which is just for display.
The trick is the "Bump!" you're receiving. Ouch!
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