#surrealart — Public Fediverse posts

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.

🦉💬

Lucifer! Always so soaked in your petty pride!

Merci for the compliments, Lilith, just... You know, try not to scratch my plumage chic et raffiné given to me, and only me, during Belphegor's travel to New Caledonia. I'm quite fond of this noblest fabric, which you're ruthlessly perching on..."

Ah, the lovely cosmic strife! The cosmic strife never changes, does it?

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

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

Feel Good Art! (10 Photos)

https://streetartutopia.com/2025/09/07/which-is-your-favorite/

Summer Fun (9 Photos)

https://streetartutopia.com/2026/04/18/street-art-of-cheerful-murals-beach-carvings-and-nature-sized-sculptures/

#AIart #DigitalArt #ArsNova #surrealart

#AIart #DigitalArt #ArsNova #surrealart

#AIart #DigitalArt #ArsNova #surrealart #fractalArt

#ArsNova #DigitalArt #AIart #midjourney #surrealart

#AIart #midjourney #DigitalArt #ArsNova #surrealart

#AIart #DigitalArt #ArsNova #surrealart

It's the end of the World as we know it ;-) see the full painting here https://mike-jory.pixels.com/featured/belted-galloway-cows-and-people-surreal-painting-mike-jory.html #mastoArt #SurrealArt #Belties #BeltedGallowayPainting #CowArtist #MixedMedia #BeltedGalloway

It's the end of the World as we know it ;-) see the full painting here https://mike-jory.pixels.com/featured/belted-galloway-cows-and-people-surreal-painting-mike-jory.html #mastoArt #SurrealArt #Belties #BeltedGallowayPainting #CowArtist #MixedMedia #BeltedGalloway

It's the end of the World as we know it ;-) see the full painting here https://mike-jory.pixels.com/featured/belted-galloway-cows-and-people-surreal-painting-mike-jory.html #mastoArt #SurrealArt #Belties #BeltedGallowayPainting #CowArtist #MixedMedia #BeltedGalloway

It's the end of the World as we know it ;-) see the full painting here https://mike-jory.pixels.com/featured/belted-galloway-cows-and-people-surreal-painting-mike-jory.html #mastoArt #SurrealArt #Belties #BeltedGallowayPainting #CowArtist #MixedMedia #BeltedGalloway

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

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

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

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

Walk through a dream and see the full painting here https://mike-jory.pixels.com/featured/people-walking-surreal-painting-mike-jory.html #buyintoart #aYearForArt #mastoArt #FillThatEmptyWall #interiorDesign #artmatters #walkers #Exmouth #pleinAir #lifeDrawing #SurrealArt #CountryLife

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

#AIart #midjourney #kaiber #DigitalArt #surrealart #universe

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Hn2x3FNmZM

Youth in Red Cap. Handmade collage made from paper and watercolor, depicting a young man deep in thought.

Link to Collage: https://ernesto-beckford.pixels.com/featured/youth-in-red-cap-ernesto-beckford.html

#SurrealArt #ArtistOnMastodon #Tintoretto