Inside the cab of a 1959 Peterbilt 351 Truck, looking from the passenger seat out toward the road ahead, I see my older brother, Donald, 30 years old, the driver, as he handles the truck and tells me a long story about how things are in his life.
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resilientgiant187

Inside the cab of a 1959 Peterbilt 351 Truck, looking from the passenger seat out toward the road ahead, I see my older brother, Donald, 30 years old, the driver, as he handles the truck and tells me a long story about how things are in his life.

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Caravaggio Realism Baroque Art Style preview
Caravaggio Realism Baroque Art Styleby @stylecreator
This Caravaggio realism Baroque art style brings street reality to religious scenes. Using common models, dirty feet, and unflinching observation, it transforms sacred stories into gritty contemporary dramas.
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Inside the cab of a 1959 Peterbilt 351 Truck, looking from the passenger seat out toward the road ahead, I see my older brother, Donald, 30 years old, the driver, as he handles the truck and tells me a long story about how things are in his life.
Inside the cab of a 1959 Peterbilt 351 Truck, looking from the passenger seat out toward the road ahead, I see kindly and wise older brother, Donald, the driver, as he handles the truck and tells me a long story about how things are in his life.
Inside the cab of a 1959 Peterbilt 351 Truck, looking from the passenger seat out toward the road ahead, I see kindly and wise uncle Cecil, the driver, as he handles the truck and tells me a long story about how things are in his life.
Inside the cab of a 1959 Peterbilt 351 Truck, looking from the passenger seat out toward the road ahead, I see kindly and wise uncle Cecil, the driver, as he handles the truck and tells me a long story about how things are in his life.
Inside the cab of a 1970 Oldsmobile looking from the passenger seat out toward the road ahead, I see my wise and kindly Uncle Cecil, a building contractor, as he drives from one job to the next and tells me a long story about how things are in his life. Outside it's a very hot day in Eldorado Arkansas where Cecil builds low-cost housing in rural areas.
Southeast Asia. Modern day. Nearer to the city now, the bus thumps and bumps to a slower pace. Grinding gears mark spaces between dirty children, playing obliviously in the road. Neither village nor metropolis, outskirts have no identity: Just a blurry line of encroachment; a temporary half-life on the way to something more. Dust springs up from the tires of trucks headed both ways on the road. A little girl stands crying in a mud puddle; her brothers laughing from the sides. She has to learn rejection to participate in this brutal, belonging dance. A little life, and a little death for a product truly worthy of its name: a good woman is hard to find.
Ancient Jerusalem scene during the feast of passover. Pilgrims have gathered inside the gate, preparing for departure back home. Looking from inside the city toward the road that goes back to home, work, and ordinary life.
Inside a large office building in London, on the 5th floor, Wing Sun's father, a Chinese Malaysian man in his 30s, speaks to his counterpart in the company, and English man, about business. Other workers are seated at their desks and standing at a copy machine. There are some Black people, but mostly British. One whole wall of the room is glass and we can see something of London outside.
Wing Sun is a 10 year old Malaysian boy. We see him from the back as he stands, looking down the street in the evening. The scent of mooncakes and burning lantern oil fills the air in the street in Petaling Jaya where Wing Sun lives. Everything is aglow with the soft light of lanterns, their colors reflected in the puddles left by the afternoon rain. At least 6 vendors have pulled their carts up onto the sidewalks on both sides of the street, selling moon pies and other special treats. Several of Wing-Sun's neighborhood friends, some younger than he and some a little older, were standing around in a circle, waiting for him to come outside.
At her Mother's house in Penang, Wing Sun's mother, a beautiful chinese woman in her 30s, is standing in her bedroom looking out the window at night. We see her from a quarter view inside the room. She is pensive and an air of tension fills the room as she remembers growing up in this house. Her hair is long and black, and she's wearing her housecoat. A lantern gives low light inside the room. It's raining outside.
Now, those captains must learn what the river will do when it makes that great turn out of sight. How it dashes them up on the rocks of the shore How it spins to the left and the right. It beats them and breaks them and crushes their pride Leaves them dizzy and sick and all jumbled inside ‘til they’ve all but forgotten that glorious ride lying flat on their deck in the sun. There they lie, drying out in the sun. As you round the point where the river was bent and survey the great wideness ahead, you can see all those captains alone on their decks, beat and broken and very near dead. Then the current takes hold and there’s naught you can do as it drags you down into its maw. Headed straight for those rocks, you make ready to crash but at last, you rise up, roll and yaw. Going back and away, then forward again, fearing each time, the rocks will prevail! You’re trapped in a cycling, circling tide, in an eddy withstanding a gale. But each time you circle that great whirling tide and you’ve not hit the rocks or been thrown to the side and you’re kept from the falls, cascading and wide, for the eddy’s small mercy give praise. Give the merciful currents your praise!
Now, those captains must learn what the river will do when it makes that great turn out of sight. How it dashes them up on the rocks of the shore How it spins to the left and the right. It beats them and breaks them and crushes their pride Leaves them dizzy and sick and all jumbled inside ‘til they’ve all but forgotten that glorious ride lying flat on their deck in the sun. There they lie, drying out in the sun. As you round the point where the river was bent and survey the great wideness ahead, you can see all those captains alone on their decks, beat and broken and very near dead. Then the current takes hold and there’s naught you can do as it drags you down into its maw. Headed straight for those rocks, you make ready to crash but at last, you rise up, roll and yaw. Going back and away, then forward again, fearing each time, the rocks will prevail! You’re trapped in a cycling, circling tide, in an eddy withstanding a gale. But each time you circle that great whirling tide and you’ve not hit the rocks or been thrown to the side and you’re kept from the falls, cascading and wide, for the eddy’s small mercy give praise. Give the merciful currents your praise!
A koi pond seen from above, orange and white koi fish swimming among lily pads, clear water with subtle ripples, fallen cherry blossom petals floating on the surface, dappled sunlight