Training on string art techniques
We recently taught a group of future art therapists the string art technique.
In my opinion, it turned out very well.
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We recently taught a group of future art therapists the string art technique.
In my opinion, it turned out very well.
What awaits in the future
this tangled heart
on strong nails.
The product is ready.
Frozen passion
on old wood.
Remains of yarn.
On the table are colored spots of memories of creativity.
The last knot.
Scissors sharply cut the excess threads.
The wind in the room.
The threads are barely visible for a quick glance.
A step back.
The painting reveals its face.
A close-up view.
Chaos of small sections builds an image.
Gradient of thoughts.
From dark crimson to a delicate rose.
Fingers are tired.
Creating geometry requires care.
Shadow under the threads.
Light plays in a grid of deep lines.
The shape of a heart.
Sharp iron edges have become soft.
Intertwining.
Each new knot
hides a secret.
The color grows.
A pink cloud lies
on the warm board.
Tension.
The tree quietly holds
the strength of the string.
A tangled path.
The thread seeks a way out
in the labyrinth.
The first loop.
A thin line connects
two segments.
A red ball.
The beginning of a long journey
between the knots.
A straight line.
Iron nails await the thread.
The first blow.
The hammer leaves
a mark on the board.
The tree is asleep.
But sharp nails destroy
the silence of the fibers.
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The heart holds on.
Woven tightly from threads,
Lives on the board.
A tired look comes to life again.
The wasteland has departed.
The light will flash.
Bright red outline
Holds back love.
The tree of breath.
The thread's nourishing juices
Warm the old flesh.
A dense binding.
Here the peace stopped,
That disappeared in the spring.
Space comes to life.
The web of old images
Became the foundation.
Faded words
Come to life again in the threads,
That hold the nail.
The picture grows.
The heart becomes thicker,
Hiding the pain.
Step by step he goes.
Fingers hold the fiber,
Bringing life back.
Where there were ashes,
Now pink paths
Crossed sadness.
Shadows disappear.
A bright bloody line
Delineated the edge.
The light on the board.
Each stretched string
Starts to sound again.
The cold of retreat.
The shape becomes solid,
The knot is knitted.
The threads are intertwined.
The pain smoothly transitions
Into a new silhouette.
A red hue
Falling with quiet light
On sharp corners.
Every trace disappeared,
But the tree remembers
The rhythms of old wounds.
A tangled knot.
Thus began the countdown
Of new warmth.
Pink fog.
Color timidly enters
Into the dead frame.
The first thin thread.
As if a forgotten memory
Touches the soul.
Empty in the chest.
Only old nails are hammered
Into the memory of the wood.