tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59662508669903487542024-03-19T04:28:36.119-07:00A ARTE NA PONTA DOS DEDOSEspaço criado, sem bordas nem limítrofes, para a minha expressão plástica e devagações... Podendo ser uma tela, um mural, uma cerâmica, uma unha... Vale o expressar e o encantamento que pode causar...
Que cause.A arte na ponta dos dedoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04939931840070528925noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5966250866990348754.post-48086020493589111342009-09-29T06:44:00.000-07:002009-10-30T08:27:00.602-07:00Dedos<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSBxxYoIveJHbw3WFUW3EOx1esqIeWMNLsKapYgCcn_EuS_t210uV7cBsBHFqCpanWUEcM6rso-3itLMyk5gSlMd-6sY8C-FsYtedHzI-LVMkdnnVNULwTMT2yx33FZBWG44JWlBexweg/s1600-h/dedinhos.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 445px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 286px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398414743835916722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSBxxYoIveJHbw3WFUW3EOx1esqIeWMNLsKapYgCcn_EuS_t210uV7cBsBHFqCpanWUEcM6rso-3itLMyk5gSlMd-6sY8C-FsYtedHzI-LVMkdnnVNULwTMT2yx33FZBWG44JWlBexweg/s400/dedinhos.jpg" /></a> <div align="center">Nenhum ser humano é capaz de esconder um segredo.<br />Se a boca se cala, falam as pontas dos dedos.<br /><a class="autor" href="http://www.pensador.info/autor/Sigmund_Freud/">Sigmund Freud</a><br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a class="autor" href="http://www.pensador.info/autor/Sigmund_Freud/"></a></div>A arte na ponta dos dedoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04939931840070528925noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5966250866990348754.post-76934590102009439392009-09-29T06:33:00.000-07:002009-09-29T06:35:34.400-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhN5hIX79xmzS-hHo3RH3Jb3ns4tGhqItvJC5AIv7uOZL3PYSposwHHMURA1-OxrPcx3OUHbRV4pYAFrLrvefWXAqRSaox6ypeZQW8TIbkE7d2VJNhmRY_RoFsgiWdS3QQmaSVJO2cRYw/s1600-h/bloguxascoracao.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386882527264549442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 60px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhN5hIX79xmzS-hHo3RH3Jb3ns4tGhqItvJC5AIv7uOZL3PYSposwHHMURA1-OxrPcx3OUHbRV4pYAFrLrvefWXAqRSaox6ypeZQW8TIbkE7d2VJNhmRY_RoFsgiWdS3QQmaSVJO2cRYw/s400/bloguxascoracao.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div>A arte na ponta dos dedoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04939931840070528925noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5966250866990348754.post-54851344705682929572009-09-29T06:17:00.000-07:002009-09-29T06:32:08.397-07:00ENTRE O PINCEL E O TECLADO...<div align="center"><span style="color:#6600cc;">...UM UNIVERSO RETICENTE...</span><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386880596965780754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 183px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 163px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF5sM-CBIkQNXbEFwkLuFr1kqV-OclsX6WCXP9CVjIsrYfbb7wjIkKqHwT-0vXz4BIvVIYPs5PaguSHQfE6MmXaO1ekVnUtHzEBakWMwcBz-BwIMYhbddQatvLcyb3sGJzJcQIbIIjKJw/s400/imagesCAMP4DFT.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386879692613756034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 183px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 147px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ZAyITZLtzs-KUBADsNzJzO_ygWzpubT60wqDsYEyrVQMa8xWCYiFxLxX5WEEb4hpSjiNqPOLNCAESwV7NMlDkANpYTIJhW2sMRSS68Dzmfdf_AgTCRn7Q6VlZaj5Nr6vodGJpbZSw08/s400/unhas.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386879370525043666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 189px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 169px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiETd47rYpZAyyfbG9Ci4rvB5NGjdJ2hthYC96X7o2yhyphenhyphen-JRgCJrAV5UlcWkAJKXnXmIxdr9OmPYvvUbxNjuaNB3nEAvmVERQmCizvbtu4qLT8UGl6l1rdSlPNL8BAVOaeCB4p9EiEL7dc/s400/2+unhhas.jpg" border="0" /> </div>A arte na ponta dos dedoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04939931840070528925noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5966250866990348754.post-60928621650038284182009-09-29T05:37:00.000-07:002009-09-29T11:56:19.492-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgjkp6c6L6BNnoBlULyg7Kyx27KV0OJFASm4r5qpXNiKDhFN_P_uacP9F4vT44qwuB1YYia3pR3KXT0Jalg1FWilsc0PKTn74NGNZB0KYlAiZaaezUgwvVC0tcAF3VJDwfjlyzHo25VZQ/s1600-h/nhuhn.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386869749935841234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 207px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 138px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgjkp6c6L6BNnoBlULyg7Kyx27KV0OJFASm4r5qpXNiKDhFN_P_uacP9F4vT44qwuB1YYia3pR3KXT0Jalg1FWilsc0PKTn74NGNZB0KYlAiZaaezUgwvVC0tcAF3VJDwfjlyzHo25VZQ/s320/nhuhn.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6600cc;"><strong>A arte de ser feliz</strong></span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Houve um tempo em que minha janela se abria s</strong></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>obre uma cidade que parecia ser feita de giz.</strong></span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Perto da janela havia um pequeno jardim quase seco.</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Era uma época de estiagem, de terra esfarelada, </strong></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>e o jardim parecia morto.</strong></span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Mas todas as manhãs vinha um pobre com um balde,e, </strong></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>em silêncio, ia atirando com a mão</strong></span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>umas gotas de água sobre as plantas. </strong></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Não era uma rega:</strong></span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>era uma espécie de aspersão ritual, </strong></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>para que o jardim não morresse.</strong></span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>E eu olhava para as plantas, para o homem,</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>para as gotas de água que caíam de seus dedos magros</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>e meu coração ficava completamente feliz.</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Às vezes abro a janela e encontro o jasmineiro em flor. </strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Outras vezes encontro nuvens espessas. </strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Avisto crianças que vão para a escola. </strong></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Pardais que pulam pelo muro.</strong></span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong></strong></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Gatos que abrem e fecham os olhos, </strong></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>sonhando com pardais.</strong></span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Borboletas brancas, duas a duas, </strong></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>como refletidas no espelho do ar.</strong></span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Marimbondos que sempre me parecem </strong></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>personagens de Lope de Vega.</strong></span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Ás vezes, um galo canta. </strong></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Às vezes, um avião passa.</strong></span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Tudo está certo, no seu lugar, </strong></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>cumprindo o seu destino.</strong></span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>E eu me sinto completamente feliz.</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Mas, quando falo dessas </strong></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>pequenas felicidades certas,</strong></span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>que estão diante de cada janela, </strong></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>uns dizem que essas coisas não existem,</strong></span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>outros que só existem diante das minhas janelas, </strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>e outros, finalmente, que é preciso aprender a olhar, </strong></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>para poder vê-las assim.</strong></span></span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><a class="autor" href="http://www.pensador.info/autor/Cecilia_Meireles/"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;color:#6600cc;"><strong>Cecília Meireles</strong></span></a></div>A arte na ponta dos dedoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04939931840070528925noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5966250866990348754.post-34132183843942275692009-09-29T05:36:00.001-07:002009-09-29T05:36:55.836-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwa-Tn7C4ZLdxeXMyjsxVVnYWdYezLzFM08FL_HrPRu1GSFuUOgQf9Kdu2BLd9keboT4PKhPwCtK7pTOyYpfg-sFqrukKS40OF6FFOFKblM2p6JtAQ-LKFl6uIbO5XkSTv3lg7ZXvoXYQ/s1600-h/z87065102.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386867406822217346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 51px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwa-Tn7C4ZLdxeXMyjsxVVnYWdYezLzFM08FL_HrPRu1GSFuUOgQf9Kdu2BLd9keboT4PKhPwCtK7pTOyYpfg-sFqrukKS40OF6FFOFKblM2p6JtAQ-LKFl6uIbO5XkSTv3lg7ZXvoXYQ/s320/z87065102.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div>A arte na ponta dos dedoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04939931840070528925noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5966250866990348754.post-57471974667776534992009-09-29T05:20:00.000-07:002009-10-30T08:24:48.080-07:00Arte<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZABjFXBcaC7Zuf69oHFeNsZRayjnCi3oIK-JVAjtUbrNeZjI3FvWMg4seaE_NNdzk5D3o4XgdlA9CDUTJpxjRkzQ-iHk3BlxfUhsqxUmJIQOIOGEq3E2MRSPCXiHNAXmvjcGBjmUBULc/s1600-h/111111.bmp"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 337px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 322px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398413598436773490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZABjFXBcaC7Zuf69oHFeNsZRayjnCi3oIK-JVAjtUbrNeZjI3FvWMg4seaE_NNdzk5D3o4XgdlA9CDUTJpxjRkzQ-iHk3BlxfUhsqxUmJIQOIOGEq3E2MRSPCXiHNAXmvjcGBjmUBULc/s400/111111.bmp" /></a><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#000099;"><strong>A arte é um resumo da natureza feito pela imaginação</strong>.</span> </div><div align="center"><a class="autor" href="http://www.pensador.info/autor/Eca_de_Queiroz/"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#000099;">Eça de Queiroz</span></a></div>A arte na ponta dos dedoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04939931840070528925noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5966250866990348754.post-47305867473257157212009-09-28T17:59:00.000-07:002009-09-29T06:38:27.651-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOodovl9Nl9HWWAN6Foj7-yKpJH-6i_xefsZmel8FWlLOU2e-L_ifc32s4kYA1GfMQ6kpNoHrTbl04A6yOmCFGQjwBy1nGZeDK1f7FpCyDmV4AVv0r_unneD2R2KqDjYxXSau3xkB_jw/s1600-h/untitleddrftgyg.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386688418869192306" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 403px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 249px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOodovl9Nl9HWWAN6Foj7-yKpJH-6i_xefsZmel8FWlLOU2e-L_ifc32s4kYA1GfMQ6kpNoHrTbl04A6yOmCFGQjwBy1nGZeDK1f7FpCyDmV4AVv0r_unneD2R2KqDjYxXSau3xkB_jw/s320/untitleddrftgyg.bmp" border="0" /></a>A arte na ponta dos dedoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04939931840070528925noreply@blogger.com0