#surrealart — Public Fediverse posts

"Pink Vision" di Alessandra Carloni.

Oil and oil pastel on canvas.

#AlessandraCarloni #PinkVision #contemporaryart #contemporarypainting #ItalianArt #ItalianArtist #RomanArtist #painting #oilpainting #oilpastel #oiloncanvas #figurativeart #figurativepainting #surrealart #surrealism #visionaryart #urbanart #urbanlandscape #Rome #Roma #Ostiense #Gazometro #GazometroRoma #industriallandscape #artwork #artecontemporanea #pittura #arteitaliana #art #arte

Psalm 39

God breathed in.
I was born.

God breathes out.
I will die.

Thus is the scope of my life.

August 16, 2015

They said she would never find the portal, she didn't have the tech, but she wasn't one to give up, she would find Terry - it had been five years but she still loved him!

#AIart #lovefromlondon #aiイラスト #conceptart #surrealart
#surrelart #fabric #portal

"FABRIC PORTAL OF THE GREAT SALT PLANES"

How Do Angels Worship?

Not with harps.
Not always.
Sometimes
with teeth.

With wings held shut.
With eyes wide open.
With a thousand faces
turned toward
the unbearable.

They do not sing.
They tremble
in fearful quiet.

Holy.

A word like nails.
Driven once.
Again.
Again.

Holy.

The throne burns.
The floor breathes.
The pillars remember
every name
God has swallowed.

An angel kneels.
Or falls.

It is not always easy
to tell the difference.

Metallic wings drift
through the bright shadow 
of storms.

Each one
still listening.
Each one
afraid to land.

Holy.

Some cover their faces.
Some cover their feet.
Some have no faces.
Some have only mouths.

One opens.
The stars recoil.

One whispers.
A city wakes
with blood
on its doorposts.

Is this praise?
The silence
after thunder?
The sword
returned to flame?
The hand
that does not strike?

Holy.

They circle
what cannot be 
approached.

Nearer.
Nearer.
Never arriving.

Their worship
is orbit.
Their worship
is fever.
Their worship
is the long refusal
to look away.

And somewhere
beyond the burning,
one small angel
folds its wings,
leans into
the terrible light,
and patiently waits
for God
to breathe.

Still Thinking About This (8 Photos)

https://streetartutopia.com/2026/07/30/still-thinking-about-this-sculptures-and-street-art/

Cosmic Choreography

Artist: Jolanta Anna Karolska

#FineArtAmerica #Pixels #AbstractArt #DigitalArt #CosmicArt #SurrealArt #ContemporaryArt #ColourfulArt #ModernArt #GeometricArt #ArtistSpotlight #WallArt #HomeDecor #FineArtPrints #ArtbyJolla

https://fineartamerica.com/featured/cosmic-choreography-jolanta-anna-karolska.html

Cosmic Choreography

Artist: Jolanta Anna Karolska

#FineArtAmerica #Pixels #AbstractArt #DigitalArt #CosmicArt #SurrealArt #ContemporaryArt #ColourfulArt #ModernArt #GeometricArt #ArtistSpotlight #WallArt #HomeDecor #FineArtPrints #ArtbyJolla

https://fineartamerica.com/featured/cosmic-choreography-jolanta-anna-karolska.html

Cosmic Choreography

Artist: Jolanta Anna Karolska

#FineArtAmerica #Pixels #AbstractArt #DigitalArt #CosmicArt #SurrealArt #ContemporaryArt #ColourfulArt #ModernArt #GeometricArt #ArtistSpotlight #WallArt #HomeDecor #FineArtPrints #ArtbyJolla

https://fineartamerica.com/featured/cosmic-choreography-jolanta-anna-karolska.html

The Places in My Dreams

The world within, the world of my dreams, is similar to the one I walk through every day. But it is different.

The streets bend strangely. The rooms open where they should not. The people and places are often indifferent to me, and sometimes, they are even antagonistic.

They are not merely people and places. They are representations of emotions I have not yet worked through from the previous day. Sixteen waking hours are not enough to fully grasp all that I have experienced, endured, feared, desired, regretted, or misunderstood.

And so, in the night, these things come alive.

They take on faces. They become houses, roads, crowds, locked doors, ruined landscapes, familiar rooms made unfamiliar. They guide me through the shadow lands—not always kindly, but truthfully. They show me what I could not see while awake.

My dreams are not escapes from the day.

They are the day returning in another form, asking to be understood.

Some nights I find myself back in places I have never been, and yet they feel older than memory. A school that was never my school. A church with hallways that keep multiplying. A childhood home rearranged by grief. A city I know by instinct, though no map has ever held it.

In these places, I am often trying to get somewhere.

I am late. I am lost. I am looking for someone. I am trying to explain myself to people who will not listen. I am searching for a room, a door, a vehicle, a path, a way home. Sometimes I am carrying something fragile. Sometimes I have forgotten what I was supposed to carry. Sometimes I am responsible for a task I do not understand, surrounded by people who seem to know the rules but refuse to tell me.

This is the cruelty of the dream world: everyone else seems initiated.

They move through the strange landscape as if it is ordinary. They know which hallway leads out, which road is safe, which bus to board, which door not to open. I am the stranger in a world that somehow belongs to me. I am the dreamer, and yet I am not in control.

Perhaps this is why the places feel antagonistic. They do not hate me. They are simply unwilling to flatter me. They will not pretend I am finished with what I have not faced. They will not comfort me with easy explanations. They turn my emotions into architecture and ask me to walk through them.

Fear becomes a narrow bridge.

Regret becomes a house with too many locked rooms.

Anger becomes a storm on the edge of town.

Shame becomes a crowd that sees me before I am ready to be seen.

Grief becomes a road that always returns to the same place.

And longing—longing becomes a light in a window I can never quite reach.

I wake from these dreams with the feeling that I have traveled farther than my body could have gone. I have crossed cities, fields, stairways, basements, sanctuaries, ruins, and train stations. I have spoken with the dead and avoided the living. I have been judged by strangers and ignored by friends. I have wandered through the unfinished weather of my own soul.

Then morning comes, and the ordinary world returns.

The walls are where I left them. The floor is solid. The dog needs to go out. The coffee waits. The phone glows with its small demands. The day begins again, pretending to be separate from the night.

But I know better.

The dream has left its residue. A feeling follows me, sometimes faint, sometimes heavy. A hallway from the dream lingers inside the hallway of the house. A face from the night appears behind the face of someone I know. A mood clings to the morning like fog.

The shadow lands do not vanish when I wake.

They retreat.

They wait beneath the visible world, beneath errands and conversations, beneath sermons and chores, beneath the version of myself that knows how to answer when someone asks, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

But somewhere beneath that answer, an entire city is still burning, or flooding, or rebuilding itself in the dark.

The Places in My Dreams

The world within, the world of my dreams, is similar to the one I walk through every day. But it is different.

The streets bend strangely. The rooms open where they should not. The people and places are often indifferent to me, and sometimes, they are even antagonistic.

They are not merely people and places. They are representations of emotions I have not yet worked through from the previous day. Sixteen waking hours are not enough to fully grasp all that I have experienced, endured, feared, desired, regretted, or misunderstood.

And so, in the night, these things come alive.

They take on faces. They become houses, roads, crowds, locked doors, ruined landscapes, familiar rooms made unfamiliar. They guide me through the shadow lands—not always kindly, but truthfully. They show me what I could not see while awake.

My dreams are not escapes from the day.

They are the day returning in another form, asking to be understood.

Some nights I find myself back in places I have never been, and yet they feel older than memory. A school that was never my school. A church with hallways that keep multiplying. A childhood home rearranged by grief. A city I know by instinct, though no map has ever held it.

In these places, I am often trying to get somewhere.

I am late. I am lost. I am looking for someone. I am trying to explain myself to people who will not listen. I am searching for a room, a door, a vehicle, a path, a way home. Sometimes I am carrying something fragile. Sometimes I have forgotten what I was supposed to carry. Sometimes I am responsible for a task I do not understand, surrounded by people who seem to know the rules but refuse to tell me.

This is the cruelty of the dream world: everyone else seems initiated.

They move through the strange landscape as if it is ordinary. They know which hallway leads out, which road is safe, which bus to board, which door not to open. I am the stranger in a world that somehow belongs to me. I am the dreamer, and yet I am not in control.

Perhaps this is why the places feel antagonistic. They do not hate me. They are simply unwilling to flatter me. They will not pretend I am finished with what I have not faced. They will not comfort me with easy explanations. They turn my emotions into architecture and ask me to walk through them.

Fear becomes a narrow bridge.

Regret becomes a house with too many locked rooms.

Anger becomes a storm on the edge of town.

Shame becomes a crowd that sees me before I am ready to be seen.

Grief becomes a road that always returns to the same place.

And longing—longing becomes a light in a window I can never quite reach.

I wake from these dreams with the feeling that I have traveled farther than my body could have gone. I have crossed cities, fields, stairways, basements, sanctuaries, ruins, and train stations. I have spoken with the dead and avoided the living. I have been judged by strangers and ignored by friends. I have wandered through the unfinished weather of my own soul.

Then morning comes, and the ordinary world returns.

The walls are where I left them. The floor is solid. The dog needs to go out. The coffee waits. The phone glows with its small demands. The day begins again, pretending to be separate from the night.

But I know better.

The dream has left its residue. A feeling follows me, sometimes faint, sometimes heavy. A hallway from the dream lingers inside the hallway of the house. A face from the night appears behind the face of someone I know. A mood clings to the morning like fog.

The shadow lands do not vanish when I wake.

They retreat.

They wait beneath the visible world, beneath errands and conversations, beneath sermons and chores, beneath the version of myself that knows how to answer when someone asks, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

But somewhere beneath that answer, an entire city is still burning, or flooding, or rebuilding itself in the dark.

The Places in My Dreams

The world within, the world of my dreams, is similar to the one I walk through every day. But it is different.

The streets bend strangely. The rooms open where they should not. The people and places are often indifferent to me, and sometimes, they are even antagonistic.

They are not merely people and places. They are representations of emotions I have not yet worked through from the previous day. Sixteen waking hours are not enough to fully grasp all that I have experienced, endured, feared, desired, regretted, or misunderstood.

And so, in the night, these things come alive.

They take on faces. They become houses, roads, crowds, locked doors, ruined landscapes, familiar rooms made unfamiliar. They guide me through the shadow lands—not always kindly, but truthfully. They show me what I could not see while awake.

My dreams are not escapes from the day.

They are the day returning in another form, asking to be understood.

Some nights I find myself back in places I have never been, and yet they feel older than memory. A school that was never my school. A church with hallways that keep multiplying. A childhood home rearranged by grief. A city I know by instinct, though no map has ever held it.

In these places, I am often trying to get somewhere.

I am late. I am lost. I am looking for someone. I am trying to explain myself to people who will not listen. I am searching for a room, a door, a vehicle, a path, a way home. Sometimes I am carrying something fragile. Sometimes I have forgotten what I was supposed to carry. Sometimes I am responsible for a task I do not understand, surrounded by people who seem to know the rules but refuse to tell me.

This is the cruelty of the dream world: everyone else seems initiated.

They move through the strange landscape as if it is ordinary. They know which hallway leads out, which road is safe, which bus to board, which door not to open. I am the stranger in a world that somehow belongs to me. I am the dreamer, and yet I am not in control.

Perhaps this is why the places feel antagonistic. They do not hate me. They are simply unwilling to flatter me. They will not pretend I am finished with what I have not faced. They will not comfort me with easy explanations. They turn my emotions into architecture and ask me to walk through them.

Fear becomes a narrow bridge.

Regret becomes a house with too many locked rooms.

Anger becomes a storm on the edge of town.

Shame becomes a crowd that sees me before I am ready to be seen.

Grief becomes a road that always returns to the same place.

And longing—longing becomes a light in a window I can never quite reach.

I wake from these dreams with the feeling that I have traveled farther than my body could have gone. I have crossed cities, fields, stairways, basements, sanctuaries, ruins, and train stations. I have spoken with the dead and avoided the living. I have been judged by strangers and ignored by friends. I have wandered through the unfinished weather of my own soul.

Then morning comes, and the ordinary world returns.

The walls are where I left them. The floor is solid. The dog needs to go out. The coffee waits. The phone glows with its small demands. The day begins again, pretending to be separate from the night.

But I know better.

The dream has left its residue. A feeling follows me, sometimes faint, sometimes heavy. A hallway from the dream lingers inside the hallway of the house. A face from the night appears behind the face of someone I know. A mood clings to the morning like fog.

The shadow lands do not vanish when I wake.

They retreat.

They wait beneath the visible world, beneath errands and conversations, beneath sermons and chores, beneath the version of myself that knows how to answer when someone asks, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

But somewhere beneath that answer, an entire city is still burning, or flooding, or rebuilding itself in the dark.

The Places in My Dreams

The world within, the world of my dreams, is similar to the one I walk through every day. But it is different.

The streets bend strangely. The rooms open where they should not. The people and places are often indifferent to me, and sometimes, they are even antagonistic.

They are not merely people and places. They are representations of emotions I have not yet worked through from the previous day. Sixteen waking hours are not enough to fully grasp all that I have experienced, endured, feared, desired, regretted, or misunderstood.

And so, in the night, these things come alive.

They take on faces. They become houses, roads, crowds, locked doors, ruined landscapes, familiar rooms made unfamiliar. They guide me through the shadow lands—not always kindly, but truthfully. They show me what I could not see while awake.

My dreams are not escapes from the day.

They are the day returning in another form, asking to be understood.

Some nights I find myself back in places I have never been, and yet they feel older than memory. A school that was never my school. A church with hallways that keep multiplying. A childhood home rearranged by grief. A city I know by instinct, though no map has ever held it.

In these places, I am often trying to get somewhere.

I am late. I am lost. I am looking for someone. I am trying to explain myself to people who will not listen. I am searching for a room, a door, a vehicle, a path, a way home. Sometimes I am carrying something fragile. Sometimes I have forgotten what I was supposed to carry. Sometimes I am responsible for a task I do not understand, surrounded by people who seem to know the rules but refuse to tell me.

This is the cruelty of the dream world: everyone else seems initiated.

They move through the strange landscape as if it is ordinary. They know which hallway leads out, which road is safe, which bus to board, which door not to open. I am the stranger in a world that somehow belongs to me. I am the dreamer, and yet I am not in control.

Perhaps this is why the places feel antagonistic. They do not hate me. They are simply unwilling to flatter me. They will not pretend I am finished with what I have not faced. They will not comfort me with easy explanations. They turn my emotions into architecture and ask me to walk through them.

Fear becomes a narrow bridge.

Regret becomes a house with too many locked rooms.

Anger becomes a storm on the edge of town.

Shame becomes a crowd that sees me before I am ready to be seen.

Grief becomes a road that always returns to the same place.

And longing—longing becomes a light in a window I can never quite reach.

I wake from these dreams with the feeling that I have traveled farther than my body could have gone. I have crossed cities, fields, stairways, basements, sanctuaries, ruins, and train stations. I have spoken with the dead and avoided the living. I have been judged by strangers and ignored by friends. I have wandered through the unfinished weather of my own soul.

Then morning comes, and the ordinary world returns.

The walls are where I left them. The floor is solid. The dog needs to go out. The coffee waits. The phone glows with its small demands. The day begins again, pretending to be separate from the night.

But I know better.

The dream has left its residue. A feeling follows me, sometimes faint, sometimes heavy. A hallway from the dream lingers inside the hallway of the house. A face from the night appears behind the face of someone I know. A mood clings to the morning like fog.

The shadow lands do not vanish when I wake.

They retreat.

They wait beneath the visible world, beneath errands and conversations, beneath sermons and chores, beneath the version of myself that knows how to answer when someone asks, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

But somewhere beneath that answer, an entire city is still burning, or flooding, or rebuilding itself in the dark.

The Places in My Dreams

The world within, the world of my dreams, is similar to the one I walk through every day. But it is different.

The streets bend strangely. The rooms open where they should not. The people and places are often indifferent to me, and sometimes, they are even antagonistic.

They are not merely people and places. They are representations of emotions I have not yet worked through from the previous day. Sixteen waking hours are not enough to fully grasp all that I have experienced, endured, feared, desired, regretted, or misunderstood.

And so, in the night, these things come alive.

They take on faces. They become houses, roads, crowds, locked doors, ruined landscapes, familiar rooms made unfamiliar. They guide me through the shadow lands—not always kindly, but truthfully. They show me what I could not see while awake.

My dreams are not escapes from the day.

They are the day returning in another form, asking to be understood.

Some nights I find myself back in places I have never been, and yet they feel older than memory. A school that was never my school. A church with hallways that keep multiplying. A childhood home rearranged by grief. A city I know by instinct, though no map has ever held it.

In these places, I am often trying to get somewhere.

I am late. I am lost. I am looking for someone. I am trying to explain myself to people who will not listen. I am searching for a room, a door, a vehicle, a path, a way home. Sometimes I am carrying something fragile. Sometimes I have forgotten what I was supposed to carry. Sometimes I am responsible for a task I do not understand, surrounded by people who seem to know the rules but refuse to tell me.

This is the cruelty of the dream world: everyone else seems initiated.

They move through the strange landscape as if it is ordinary. They know which hallway leads out, which road is safe, which bus to board, which door not to open. I am the stranger in a world that somehow belongs to me. I am the dreamer, and yet I am not in control.

Perhaps this is why the places feel antagonistic. They do not hate me. They are simply unwilling to flatter me. They will not pretend I am finished with what I have not faced. They will not comfort me with easy explanations. They turn my emotions into architecture and ask me to walk through them.

Fear becomes a narrow bridge.

Regret becomes a house with too many locked rooms.

Anger becomes a storm on the edge of town.

Shame becomes a crowd that sees me before I am ready to be seen.

Grief becomes a road that always returns to the same place.

And longing—longing becomes a light in a window I can never quite reach.

I wake from these dreams with the feeling that I have traveled farther than my body could have gone. I have crossed cities, fields, stairways, basements, sanctuaries, ruins, and train stations. I have spoken with the dead and avoided the living. I have been judged by strangers and ignored by friends. I have wandered through the unfinished weather of my own soul.

Then morning comes, and the ordinary world returns.

The walls are where I left them. The floor is solid. The dog needs to go out. The coffee waits. The phone glows with its small demands. The day begins again, pretending to be separate from the night.

But I know better.

The dream has left its residue. A feeling follows me, sometimes faint, sometimes heavy. A hallway from the dream lingers inside the hallway of the house. A face from the night appears behind the face of someone I know. A mood clings to the morning like fog.

The shadow lands do not vanish when I wake.

They retreat.

They wait beneath the visible world, beneath errands and conversations, beneath sermons and chores, beneath the version of myself that knows how to answer when someone asks, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

But somewhere beneath that answer, an entire city is still burning, or flooding, or rebuilding itself in the dark.

The Dance of Dissonance

Sometimes 
I find myself lost
at the end of 
a confusing day 
trying to decipher labyrinthian relations 
and coming up short,
suddenly wondering 
how a day I thought good 
was not for another,
caught up in 
opposing realities 
where mine is suspect
and empathy is a struggle.

The brain fog 
of past illness 
has left its trailing 
fingers over my head
like the cigarette smoke 
of the man I see one morning standing with his back to me on the dock outside the store where I used to work 
and I wonder why he is there. 

I am suspicious, feeling responsible for what is no longer mine to care about, so I observe, yet remain at a distance and leave without really discovering if his presence is innocent. 

Such is the dance of dissonance.
I am close enough to see your back but too far to see your face clearly,
afraid that if I look too closely I will not like what  I see or that I will recognize some ugly part of me.

I want to hear 
that which runs 
counter to my experience 
but I must be honest and say that my capacity to understand the complexities of human behavior is diminishing. 

I long for circles that are completely safe,
where the people I pass on the walk home illicit in me feelings other than fear,
lust, guilt, or judgement,
all of which mirror 
the overwhelming sense
of dislike
I feel from the
world, and from myself perhaps.

It is my inability to not receive everything personally, this overwhelming sadness,  unprotected by my hypervigilance, where I still seem to miss what is most important, and no matter how much I try to hold everything together, I cannot keep things from unraveling. 

How do I continue to remain caring and yet not take on burdens that are not mine to carry? 

This then is the strange choreography of relationship, the stumbling herky-jerky movements of a marionette pulled by invisible strings, revealed in the bright lights of another angry stage.

Yet we dance. 
Through the pain of revelation.
The occasional stepping on of toes.
In the percieved exposure of audience eyes.
Shedding these inadequate masks and costumes one by one.
Finding our own rhythm in the strange movings of this particular 
circle of love.

Beg: June 5, 2026 
Fin: June 30, 2026

Celestial Rift Over Silent Peaks.
#ArtDigital #FantasyArt #SurrealArt #Dreamscape #LandscapeArt #CosmicArt #PsychedelicArt #ModernArt #CreativeExpression #AiArt #DigitalArt #Midjourney #VisualPoetry #ColorExplosion #Ethereal

Drifting Beyond.
#ArtDigital #SurrealArt #Dreamscape #FantasyArt #CosmicArt #VisualPoetry #MysticalLandscape #ModernArt #DigitalArt #CreativeExpression #ArtisticMood #AiArt #Midjourney

Inner Constellation.
#ArtDigital #SurrealArt #Portrait #Dreamscape #CosmicArt #VisualPoetry #Mystery #Textures #ModernArt #DigitalArt #CreativeExpression #ArtisticMood #AiArt #Midjourney

Celestial Fracture.
#ArtDigital #SurrealArt #Dreamscape #CosmicArt #AbstractArt #VisualPoetry #Mystery #Textures #ModernArt #DigitalArt #CreativeExpression #ArtisticMood #AiArt #Midjourney

Made by Human #FuckAI
https://shop.gurgel-segrillo.com/collections/print-series-3/products/buy-magic-realism-art-print-17

#WallArt #print #MagicRealism #SurrealArt #FuckAIart #figurative #colourful #surrealist #RealismoMagico #GurgelSegrillo #NoAI #tradigital #RealismoFantastico #FeckAI #MadeByHuman #MadeByHand

When twilight surrenders to a deeper magic, the Celestial Moth arrives.

#FeatherMagic #SurrealArt #WhimsicalPhotography #MagicalRealism #ForgottenPalaces #ArtisticVision #DreamscapePhotography #MysticalMoments #ttmo #FeatheredWonder #StorytellingThroughArt

This video frame captures a woman in a shimmering, flowing gown, standing on a dark, reflective surface. She reaches towards a colossal, glowing golden energy column erupting from fiery, jagged rock formations in the center. The column spirals with bright particles, illuminating a vast, starry cosmic background and dark, icy stalactites above. The scene features volumetric light, particle effects, and a fantastical, ethereal aesthetic, resembling a cosmic event or magical ritual.

#FantasyArt, #DigitalArt, #CosmicFantasy, #MagicalRealism, #EtherealBeauty, #GoddessVibes, #EnergyPortal, #StarrySky, #GlowingEffect, #ParticleEffects, #VolumetricLighting, #SurrealArt, #Dreamscape, #MysticalScene, #EpicFantasy, #ConceptArt, #ImaginationArt, #SpiritualArt, #SciFiFantasy, #CelestialArt, #ArtisticVision, #art, #ai, #aiart, #aichallenge, #aicommunity

This video frame captures a woman in a shimmering, flowing gown, standing on a dark, reflective surface. She reaches towards a colossal, glowing golden energy column erupting from fiery, jagged rock formations in the center. The column spirals with bright particles, illuminating a vast, starry cosmic background and dark, icy stalactites above. The scene features volumetric light, particle effects, and a fantastical, ethereal aesthetic, resembling a cosmic event or magical ritual.

#FantasyArt, #DigitalArt, #CosmicFantasy, #MagicalRealism, #EtherealBeauty, #GoddessVibes, #EnergyPortal, #StarrySky, #GlowingEffect, #ParticleEffects, #VolumetricLighting, #SurrealArt, #Dreamscape, #MysticalScene, #EpicFantasy, #ConceptArt, #ImaginationArt, #SpiritualArt, #SciFiFantasy, #CelestialArt, #ArtisticVision, #art, #ai, #aiart, #aichallenge, #aicommunity

This video displays a digitally animated, glowing purple and blue octopus centered against a dark, star-filled cosmic background. Its head is a multifaceted, crystalline orb containing a swirling pink and blue galaxy. Bright cyan light emanates from beneath the creature and from within its body, highlighting textured skin with small luminous dots. Below the octopus, the white, glowing text "OctopAI" is prominently displayed.

#OctopusArt, #AIArt, #SciFiArt, #CosmicArt, #DigitalIllustration, #FantasyArt, #GalaxyArt, #NeonArt, #GlowingArt, #CreatureDesign, #DeepSea, #SpaceArt, #MysticalArt, #SurrealArt, #TechArt, #ConceptArt, #Futuristic, #OctopAI, #ArtStation, #DigitalPainting, #VibrantArt, #art, #ai, #aiart, #aichallenge, #aicommunity

This video displays a digitally animated, glowing purple and blue octopus centered against a dark, star-filled cosmic background. Its head is a multifaceted, crystalline orb containing a swirling pink and blue galaxy. Bright cyan light emanates from beneath the creature and from within its body, highlighting textured skin with small luminous dots. Below the octopus, the white, glowing text "OctopAI" is prominently displayed.

#OctopusArt, #AIArt, #SciFiArt, #CosmicArt, #DigitalIllustration, #FantasyArt, #GalaxyArt, #NeonArt, #GlowingArt, #CreatureDesign, #DeepSea, #SpaceArt, #MysticalArt, #SurrealArt, #TechArt, #ConceptArt, #Futuristic, #OctopAI, #ArtStation, #DigitalPainting, #VibrantArt, #art, #ai, #aiart, #aichallenge, #aicommunity

This video displays a digitally animated, glowing purple and blue octopus centered against a dark, star-filled cosmic background. Its head is a multifaceted, crystalline orb containing a swirling pink and blue galaxy. Bright cyan light emanates from beneath the creature and from within its body, highlighting textured skin with small luminous dots. Below the octopus, the white, glowing text "OctopAI" is prominently displayed.

#OctopusArt, #AIArt, #SciFiArt, #CosmicArt, #DigitalIllustration, #FantasyArt, #GalaxyArt, #NeonArt, #GlowingArt, #CreatureDesign, #DeepSea, #SpaceArt, #MysticalArt, #SurrealArt, #TechArt, #ConceptArt, #Futuristic, #OctopAI, #ArtStation, #DigitalPainting, #VibrantArt, #art, #ai, #aiart, #aichallenge, #aicommunity

This video displays a digitally animated, glowing purple and blue octopus centered against a dark, star-filled cosmic background. Its head is a multifaceted, crystalline orb containing a swirling pink and blue galaxy. Bright cyan light emanates from beneath the creature and from within its body, highlighting textured skin with small luminous dots. Below the octopus, the white, glowing text "OctopAI" is prominently displayed.

#OctopusArt, #AIArt, #SciFiArt, #CosmicArt, #DigitalIllustration, #FantasyArt, #GalaxyArt, #NeonArt, #GlowingArt, #CreatureDesign, #DeepSea, #SpaceArt, #MysticalArt, #SurrealArt, #TechArt, #ConceptArt, #Futuristic, #OctopAI, #ArtStation, #DigitalPainting, #VibrantArt, #art, #ai, #aiart, #aichallenge, #aicommunity

This video displays a digitally animated, glowing purple and blue octopus centered against a dark, star-filled cosmic background. Its head is a multifaceted, crystalline orb containing a swirling pink and blue galaxy. Bright cyan light emanates from beneath the creature and from within its body, highlighting textured skin with small luminous dots. Below the octopus, the white, glowing text "OctopAI" is prominently displayed.

#OctopusArt, #AIArt, #SciFiArt, #CosmicArt, #DigitalIllustration, #FantasyArt, #GalaxyArt, #NeonArt, #GlowingArt, #CreatureDesign, #DeepSea, #SpaceArt, #MysticalArt, #SurrealArt, #TechArt, #ConceptArt, #Futuristic, #OctopAI, #ArtStation, #DigitalPainting, #VibrantArt, #art, #ai, #aiart, #aichallenge, #aicommunity

"The Star Jar"
Small-format watercolor surreal illustration with an anime-inspired aesthetic

#watercolor #artwork #animeinspired #surrealillustration #surrealism #surrealart #popsurrealism #mangaart #mangaaesthtic #animeinspired #illustration #animeillustration #painting #watercolrilllustration #Londonillustrator #illustratorforhire #editorialillustration #coverillustration #artprint #wallart #animeprint #animewallart #animesticker

🌙⛵ "Moonlit Sailboats on Dreamlike Waters" ⛵🌊
https://www.redbubble.com/shop/ap/171000949?ref=studio-promote

🖌️ Crafted with: Photoshop + Fotor AI + Topaz Labs + ON1
🛍️ Available as: Posters • Phone Cases • Tapestries • Notebooks & more!
Bring this magical scene into your space today:

✨ #DigitalArt #SailboatArt #MoonlightMagic #SurrealArt #OceanDreams #WallArt #ArtLovers #RedbubbleShop #AIArt #TranquilVibes #Waterscape #DreamyArt
@redbubble @redbubble.art @digitalartistshub

Hold your head up high and click here https://mike-jory.pixels.com/featured/orange-hen-painting-mike-jory.html Hen painting #buyintoart #aYearForArt #mastoArt #FillThatEmptyWall #interiorDesign #artmatters #Hen #HenPainting #ChickenPainting #butcher #OrangeHen #HenWalking #surrealArt #farmingLife #FarmCafe #FarmRestaurant

Color outside the lines and try to find all the belted galloway cattle in this surreal beach painting. How many cattle can you see? click here https://mike-jory.pixels.com/featured/belted-galloway-cow-at-budleigh-salterton-beach-painting-mike-jory.html #buyintoart #aYearForArt #mastoArt #FillThatEmptyWall #interiorDesign #artmatters #BeltedGalloway #CowPainting #Belties #butcher #BudleighSalterton #beach #surrealArt #farmingLife #FarmCafe #FarmRestaurant

Explore new styles for conventional subjects here https://mike-jory.pixels.com/featured/purple-horse-grazing-watercolor-painting-mike-jory.html Horse painting #buyintoart #aYearForArt #mastoArt #FillThatEmptyWall #interiorDesign #artmatters #HorsePainting #SurrealPainting #AnimalPainting #FarmShop #FarmCafe #Stables #farmRestaurant #Equestrian #surrealArt

Visit the edge of reality by viewing the full painting here https://mike-jory.pixels.com/featured/black-cows-watercolor-painting-mike-jory.html #buyintoart #aYearForArt #mastoArt #FillThatEmptyWall #interiorDesign #artmatters #blackCattle #DexterCattle #AngusCattle #cows #cowPainting #FarmShop #FarmCafe #farmRestaurant #butcher #surrealArt

Experience the weirdest flock of sheep ever by viewing the full painting here https://mike-jory.pixels.com/featured/sheep-and-lamb-permanent-rose-and-blue-painting-mike-jory.html Sheep and lamb surreal painting #buyintoart #aYearForArt #mastoArt #FillThatEmptyWall #interiorDesign #artmatters #SheepPainting #LambPainting #LandscapePainting #FarmShop #FarmCafe #Shepherd #farmRestaurant #butcher #surrealArt

Is this the most unusual croquet painting ever? decide here https://mike-jory.pixels.com/featured/croquet-painting-mike-jory.html #croquet #mastoArt #BuyIntoArt #FillThatEmptyWall #AYearForArt #interiorDesign #cows #surrealArt #croquetPainting

... 海で殺す ...

#seakil #atomic #antique #aiphotography #squid #blindsquid #occultart #surrealart #hopedestroyer #see #neweyes #scifiart #occult #cult #believe

Made by Human #FuckAI

https://shop.gurgel-segrillo.com/collections/print-series-3/products/buy-magic-realism-art-print-18

#WallArt #print #MagicRealism #SurrealArt #FuckAIart #figurative #colourful #surrealist #RealismoMagico #GurgelSegrillo #NoAI #tradigital #RealismoFantastico #FeckAI #MadeByHuman #MadeByHand

This is my third collage this year and 134s over all. Its called:
"the sea takes everyone in darkness
humans create in light and unity"

#collage #collageartist #engraved #digitalcollage #affinity #artwork #illustration_art #surrealart #kupferstich #art