A few nice Folding Chairs images I found:
On Folding Chair
Image by Archman8
Grandma at Rose’s ART Show Greenwich Village NYC B&W 1954
Image by Whiskeygonebad
Grandma at Aunt Rose’s ART Show 1950s Greenwich Village NYC B&W 1954
See large size to see the paintings more clearly.
www.flickr.com/photos/badwsky/5461087826/sizes/o/
We still have many of them in the family.
Check out these Folding Chairs images:
North Carolina
Image by Mike Schmid
Sound check.
Folding Jeff Chair
Image by SisterMaryEris
Jeff with his Jeff chair display sign
A few nice Folding Camping Chairs images I found:
Angie and me around a campfire wile camping at Silver Strand State Beach
Image by slworking2
Silver Strand State Beach
Coronado (San Diego), California
Pepsi & Max
Image by CharmaineZoe
Pepsi & Max sharing a folding bucket chair in the caravan awning – they do actually have one each, but this particular day they decided to share!
Some nice wrinkles camping chairs pictures I’ve found:
Somewhere in the Benelux!
Year peak of Azfar.2010
Aloo Muttar cooking on a mini-oven beside my folding chair. sufficient to found a delicious meal!
Comfy Camp
Year peak of SeattleYogi
Emily and Majit brought a sweet blanket. And check out the double folding chair – very comfortable. Andy, Emily, Majit, Jen, Tammy
A few nice plastic folding chairs images I found:
o hello
Image by maureen_sill
this looks better if you enlarge it
being at school is incredibly weird, in a setting that feels terrible at times
a place with big stores and cars and people in nice clothes, isn’t this what i tried to leave in the first place?
i took the minibus home to my mama’s house and she was waiting for me on the porch
kissed me on the cheek and
brought me inside to the hiv/aids support group meeting
i did not sit in the corner, i sat on the couch in the middle this time, my sixth time
most of the same people but this time also
a man who came to the clinic today that stayed afterwards to talk to me
we sat on the porch, on flimsy lawn chairs
i watched a dog licking an empty plastic food container across the street
i watched ants crawling out of it
it’s ear was bleeding, on the side, a lot, it was dried a little, into it’s brown fur
no one was paying attention to it
the man who stayed after to talk to me was a friend of a friend’s, said mama
he told me how he was raped in prison, and this is how he contracted hiv
he went into very graphic detail and spoke very slowly, talking about the skin of the man that raped him
how it felt in his ankles, he told me it hurt his ankles
the way that the man was doing it
he told me how it felt with one syllable adjectives, in english, in seemlingly hundred syllable adjectives, in xhosa
i felt like my blood slowed down, the theme of this entire experience
he said, mama thandiwe says you take very good photos, like your pictures could be in the newspaper!
i said, she is just saying that because she likes me
you can take my picture if you want, for yourself
i said, it’s okay, i just want to talk to you if that is okay
i didn’t deserve to take his picture
it wouldn’t have looked right
i could tell it wouldn’t have been right, so i didn’t bother
i could tell, it wouldn’t have been what i wanted it to be, and it would have killed me
to show him as anything less than gentle, or sweet
he zipped up his jacket
i looked at the whiskers on his face
he said he went to jail for ten years for selling drugs, he said he never did drugs once himself
he said, the white kids in the nice schools, they love coke, and he said, the black kids in the bad schools, they love tick
what is tick, i said
he said, i think americans call it meth
i said, oh
then he made fun of my american accent and then
he said, what else was i to do
he drank a cup of hot tea that i made for him with milk and sugar
he crossed his legs very well and he said he did not ever feel sorry for himself
only for his country, in general
he said, now that the president of south africa has stepped down from his position this past weekend
because of charges of corruption and because of party pressure
you are going to be in for a very interesting time in south africa
(as if i wasn’t already, i thought)
he said, there might be riots
my mama said, some people are upset, but there won’t be riots
he said again, there could be riots, do not ever say there will not be riots in south africa, you will be selling the people short, there is a big protest tomorrow
i said nothing and got him some more tea
i pet the dog with the broken ear
mama said do not pet the dogs they will bite you
i folded the tablecloth
i re-filled the free condom dispenser by the front door
i did the dishes
i played twenty questions with nelisa
i don’t know
it’s very satisfying to me, to type or write "i don’t know", "i don’t understand"
a form of three word relief
Image by wakingphotolife
It was 6:30 in the morning and a Friday when my father woke me up. I didn’t sleep until three last night. That’s been the normal routine since the end of May. I suffer from severe insomnia and it gets dark outside much earlier these days.
He was standing in my doorway and shouting my name. "I spilled coffee in the kitchen. Hurry and come downstairs to clean it up before the ants get there, I have to leave for work," he said.
I was dreaming when he woke me up. I had a feeling that I had just reached the climax of my dream and she was about to say something so significant that it would stay with me long into my waking hours, but before she could, this is what I got instead, "I spilled coffee in the kitchen, hurry, before the ants come."
"Can’t you just clean it up with a rag?" I said.
"It’s all over the place, just hurry up and get downstairs before there’s ants everywhere. I’m going to be late."
I waved him off and put on a sweater. It was cold and like clock-work for this time of month, there were sheets of rain outside.
There were two floor towels by the bottom legs of the kitchen table, our dining table. A dish rag on the white tiles of its surface and another dish rag underneath the faucet in the sink. The faucet was turned all the way to the left a long tail of steam was rising from it.
Everything was pushed to one side of the table – a plate full of scrambled eggs and Chinese sausages, a plastic packet of sliced oven-roasted turkey breast, two slices of bread, and a bottle of ketchup and a cereal box. My father stood over the puddle towards the middle edge. There was coffee on the floor and in the tracks of the sliding glass door. There was a dark stain on the fabric of one of the chairs. There were splatters on the glass and along the vertical window blinds peeled away next to it. "Fuck you ah," my father mumbled and repeated, in English and in Chinese.
"Are you sure there’s just one cup?" I said.
"Yeah," he said.
"But how come there’s so much?"
"I said it was just one cup. I spilled the entire cup!"
I looked around to see if there were any remains of our coffee mugs. "Just calm down. I’ll clean it up."
He washed his hands at the sink and wiped them on the back of his black jeans. He took his jacket off the hanger by the garage entrance. I put a hand on his shoulder, "Calm down and drive safe," I said, "It’s raining outside."
"Tell Judy I made her a sandwich to bring to school," he said.
6:40 on the clock, I can’t remember the last time I woke up this early on a day without any work. I thought I’d be tired and sleepy, but I wasn’t. I thought I’d be irritated and moody, especially by my father, but I wasn’t. I felt content, as if I had just walked into the center of a storm and moved it back out to the ocean, while standing there with my hands underneath the steaming water.
I got to work on the coffee puddle with the rags and towels he left me. Each time, I’d soak them under the faucet, wring them once and press them back onto the tiles and table. I repeated this until all the coffee was gone and the only thing left was just water. When I realized that the spill was gone, I felt disappointed. Maybe I had worked too fast.
The phone rang, I knew the number on the caller ID; I could hear the mix of wind, traffic and rain. "Don’t forget to clean the blinds," he said.
"I know. I got it," I said, "Go to work. Drive safely."
"There’s a sandwich by the coffee machine. Tell Judy -"
"I know."
I had stuffed paper towels into the tracks of the sliding glass door, the one that led to the backyard. When I removed the paper towels, the creases of where I had folded them, the part that made contact with the metal, had turned black.
"Long! you’re wasting paper. Why didn’t you just use the rags," Judy said. She had just come downstairs.
"Look, it’s absolutely filthy there. I’m not using the rags. No," I said. I popped the lid of the trash can threw the paper towels away. "Do you know what happened here?"
"No, I was in my room when I heard dad say something about coffee," she said.
"Yeah. He spilled a cup of coffee and asked me to clean it because he had to go to work but it looked an entire pot."
"Well, maybe he did," she said. She made the motion of throwing her arm out like a stage performer.
"Were you up when mom was up?"
"No, I don’t think so."
"I don’t know. It’s all over the window too."
Victor came into the kitchen. "You’re up early," he said.
"Yeah. Dad woke me up. He spilled coffee," I said.
He glanced over at the water running in the sink, the pile of towels and rags, the chair with the damp cushion, the splatters across the blinds and glass. "Dad’s on crack," he said.
I didn’t respond. It didn’t deserve one.
I could hear the springs on the garage door groan as it opened. A few seconds I heard them groan as it closed.
I wiped down each piece of the vertical blinds. It wasn’t just coffee; they hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. In fact, the blinds had broke many years ago and the narrow rope that we use to pull to move them back and forth didn’t move it at all. I had forgot until I tried it and realized it was still stuck.
With everything finished, I gathered all the rags and towels from throughout the entire house – the kitchen, the bathrooms, the garage, next to the aquarium – and put them in the wash. I didn’t care if some of them were still clean or hadn’t be used. Then I had a bowl of cereal and read the news on-line.
The neighbors house was sold. We had been waiting for at least a year as it made its way through bankruptcy, foreclosure, a long pending status, real estate auctions, and when the official for sale went up, weekends of open houses with strangers suddenly parking on the sidewalk in front our driveway. I told my parents that my brothers and I should just go outside and fight, yell at each other in Chinese, and smoke on the lawn while wearing wife beaters and baggy sweat pants whenever there was an open house going on to scare any potential buyers and drive its value down.
We made a few offers, but the agent didn’t want them.
Wednesday of last week, a middle aged Chinese woman, along with her child, rang out doorbell and asked it the trash and recycle bin on the sidewalk were ours. She introduced as living next door. "Yeah they are. I think they city came and took them from the property a few months ago so you’ll have probably have to call them to get them back. Do you need the number?"
On the Sunday at the beginning of the week, some people came to replace the broken tiles on the roof and clean out the gutter and drain pipes. The high pressure water hoses they use sprayed debris and grime all over our walkway and exterior wall. My father went out to ask them to clean it after they were finished.
Thursday, when I got home from the library, a few men had chainsawed in front of their house down. They didn’t stop until it was time for dinner. I was trying episode of ten of Ken Burn’s Jazz documentary until I gave up. Judy and I went out to take a look after they left. "Do you notice something? All the Chinese families that bought houses on our street -"
"Chopped down their trees,"
"Yeah. Why are we such tree choppers?" I said
"Maybe because we all think that the roots will eventually dig up and crack the driveway?"
"Either that or we don’t care about the environment."
"You know the house on the corner. They said they were landscapers."
"More like landscrappers."
That night I asked my father if he knew how much the house had sold for.
"7,000," he said.
"That’s too much for a house like that," I said.
"Yeah. I told your mom but she still really wanted it. She doesn’t want to listen, but, we have a lot of things to pay for. Victor and William going to college, and Judy – "
"I know."
That night, I helped my mother with dinner. I sliced ginger roots and a slab of beef. Volunteering at the library made me want to be more helpful at home, if I could give my time and effort to strangers, I should be able to do even more for my family.
"You’re slicing them too thick. When they’re thick, it’s going to be spicy too eat," she said.
"Show me how then," I said.
"Like this."
"Why can’t I just use the julienne slicer?"
"Because ginger’s too hard."
"How’s this then."
"You got to angle your knife out more or cut straight down."
"You know, we father could have bought the house. Do you know why we can’t? We keep spending on small things that don’t matter. It all adds up. Tell me, how can those people who only have ,000 a month get by. How can they have a livelihood?"
"I know." I said, "What do I do with this one." I held one of the pieces of ginger. It looked old and was much darker than the other ones.
"It’s gone bad. Don’t eat it," she said. She picked it up and tried to throw into the trash can. Instead, it missed and hit the edge of the table and fell onto the floor. I looked up as I heard the thud but didn’t say anything and kept working until everything was finished.
A few nice plastic folding chairs images I found:
What’s really in my bag? – with Flickr notes!
Image by Earl – What I Saw 2.0
Today was a mobile day – I worked out of the food court at a local mall – so this is a shot of what I took with me, just before I left. See the notes, if you’re curious!
enfolded
Image by imago
If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.
/William Blake
Civilized human beings wear clothes, therefore there can be no portraiture, no mythological or historical storytelling without representations of folded textiles. But though it may account for the origins, mere tailoring can never explain the luxuriant development of drapery as a major theme of all the plastic arts. Artists, it is obvious, have always loved drapery for its own sake—or, rather, for their own. When you paint or carve drapery, you are painting or carving forms which, for all practical purposes, are non-representational—the kind of unconditioned forms on which artists even in the most naturalistic tradition like to let themselves go. In the average Madonna or Apostle the strictly human, fully representational element accounts for about ten per cent of the whole. All the rest consists of many colored variations on the inexhaustible theme of crumpled wool or linen. And these non-representational nine-tenths of a Madonna or an Apostle may be just as important qualitatively as they are in quantity. Very often they set the tone of the whole work of art, they state the key in which the theme is being rendered, they express the mood, the temperament, the attitude to life of the artist. Stoical serenity reveals itself in the smooth surfaces, the broad untortured folds of Piero’s draperies. Torn between fact and wish, between cynicism and idealism, Bernini tempers the all but caricatural verisimilitude of his faces with enormous sartorial abstractions, which are the embodiment, in stone or bronze, of the everlasting commonplaces of rhetoric—the heroism, the holiness, the sublimity to which mankind perpetually aspires, for the most part in vain. And here are El Greco’s disquietingly visceral skirts and mantles; here are the sharp, twisting, flame-like folds in which Cosimo Tura clothes his figures: in the first, traditional spirituality breaks down into a nameless physiological yearning; in the second, there writhes an agonized sense of the world’s essential strangeness and hostility. Or consider Watteau; his men and women play lutes, get ready for balls and harlequinades, embark, on velvet lawns and under noble trees, for the Cythera of every lover’s dream; their enormous melancholy and the flayed, excruciating sensibility of their creator find expression, not in the actions recorded, not in the gestures and the faces portrayed, but in the relief and texture of their taffeta skirts, their satin capes and doublets. Not an inch of smooth surface here, not a moment of peace or confidence, only a silken wilderness of countless tiny pleats and wrinkles, with an incessant modulation—inner uncertainty rendered with the perfect assurance of a master hand—of tone into tone, of one indeterminate color into another. In life, man proposes, God disposes. In the plastic arts the proposing is done by the subject matter; that which disposes is ultimately the artist’s temperament, proximately (at least in portraiture, history and genre) the carved or painted drapery. Between them, these two may decree that a fête galante shall move to tears, that a crucifixion shall be serene to the point of cheerfulness, that a stigmatization shall be almost intolerably sexy, that the likeness of a prodigy of female brainlessness (I am thinking now of Ingres’ incomparable Mme. Moitessier) shall express the austerest, the most uncompromising intellectuality.
But this is not the whole story. Draperies, as I had now discovered, are much more than devices for the introduction of non-representational forms into naturalistic paintings and sculptures. What the rest of us see only under the influence of mescalin, the artist is congenitally equipped to see all the time. His perception is not limited to what is biologically or socially useful. A little of the knowledge belonging to Mind at Large oozes past the reducing valve of brain and ego, into his consciousness. It is a knowledge of the intrinsic significance of every existent. For the artist as for the mescalin taker draperies are living hieroglyphs that stand in some peculiarly expressive way for the unfathomable mystery of pure being. More even than the chair, though less perhaps than those wholly supernatural flowers, the folds of my gray flannel trousers were charged with "is-ness." To what they owed this privileged status, I cannot say. Is it, perhaps, because the forms of folded drapery are so strange and dramatic that they catch the eye and in this way force the miraculous fact of sheer existence upon the attention? Who knows? What is important is less the reason for the experience than the experience itself. Poring over Judith’s skirts, there in the World’s Biggest Drug Store, I knew that Botticelli—and not Botticelli alone, but many others too-had looked at draperies with the same transfigured and transfiguring eyes as had been mine that morning. They had seen the Istigkeit, the Allness and Infinity of folded cloth and had done their best to render it in paint or stone. Necessarily, of course, without success. For the glory and the wonder of pure existence belong to another order, beyond the Power of even the highest art to express. But in Judith’s skirt I could clearly see what, if I had been a painter of genius, I might have made of my old gray flannels. Not much, heaven knows, in comparison with the reality, but enough to delight generation after generation of beholders, enough to make them understand at least a little of the true significance of what, in our pathetic imbecility, we call "mere things" and disregard in favor of television.
/Aldous Huxley
The whole work here:
www.druglibrary.org/schaffer/lsd/doors.htm
A few nice Metal Folding Chairs images I found:
Obama Chair Sticker
Image by Mr. T in DC
Obama bumper sticker on folding metal chair on 11th Street NW, between F and G Streets, with the Bolt Bus in the background.
_MG_3681
Image by doobybrain
Some cool Folding Lawn Chairs images:
cIMG_1972
Image by jooleeah_stahkey
Boston Pride 2008
A group of bears who did synchronized movements with folding lawn chairs. AWESOME.
Lawn chairs
Image by ewen and donabel
We went to Wal-Mart and bought folding chairs for . Later that day we found these perfectly good chairs that someone was going to throw away. Took a photo because it was funny!
A few nice Metal Folding Chairs images I found:
Chair
Image by unforth
By Cevedra B. Sheldon (act. 1873 – 77)
Marks Adjustable Folding Chair Company (1877 – 97)
Patented 1876
New York
Iron, walnute, cane, and original upholstery
Item number: 1984.722
Check out these Folding Beach Chairs images:
2008 West Pass Hunter Campsite and Firepit
Image by St.VincentVolunteers
Wilson II
Image by mjecker
Check out these Outdoor Folding Chairs images:
outdoor concert
Image by Rennett Stowe
Ornamental Grass
Image by MiriamPoling
A few nice Folding Chairs images I found:
folding chairs
Image by orphanjones
Eddie Van Halen folding chair
Image by drazz
Pepsi Folding Chair – Boulder, CO
Image by SAITOR
A few nice Wood Folding Chairs images I found:
Antique Folding Chairs
Image by Generation X-Ray
folding metal chair outside
Image by Jo Naylor
Jes in Giant Gnarled Wood Chair
Image by photonooner
Some cool Folding Chairs images:
folding chair
Image by shooting brooklyn
Folding Chair
Image by taberandrew
March of the Folding Chairs
Image by catface3
A few nice Folding Beach Chairs images I found:
The Deserted Beaches Of Harris
Image by Stuart Herbert
IMG_7517.jpg
Image by SonnyandSandy
don’t take a seat
Image by myfear
Check out these Folding Beach Chairs images:
Walk To The Beach
Image by snedegar3
Empty Chairs on the Beach
Image by Robert Scott Photography.ca
Bringing Some Folding Chairs to Happy Jack’s Party
Image by jsrcyclist
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