Audio ingles 1

Most wonderful and belated design composed entirely of flowers, thought of a decline who had had so much high hopes, he said, that he had drawn him a picture of a grizzly deer so designed that the hair on the chest became the favorite color of the deer. Could he not draw the likeness of a lady in a position with such servitude upon a man's arms, that when the muscle of the arm was facing the baby comes to life and performs some artistic consulting? All I'm saying, the boy thought him, is that you have drawn a really strong idea. We could have Joseph for a model. A study of Joseph on my back. Am I not entitled to a picture of my wife up on my back? Oh, Joseph. Yet, little knew he only had to mention his wife and the boy's sweet broad lips would loosen and begin to fit. No, the girl said. Darling Joseph, please, take this portrait and finish it. Then you will feel more generous. It is an enormous idea. Never in my life have I had such an idea before. What idea? That he should make a picture of you up on my back. Am I not entitled to that? A picture of me? A nude study? The girl said. It is an incredible idea. Not nude, the girl said. It is an enormous idea, the other said. It is very depressing, she said. It is an ill-thinking idea, the boy said. It is an idea that calls for a celebration. The empire of the republic among them. Then the boy said. It is not good. I do not possibly manage the tattoo. Instead, I will paint the picture on your back. And you will have it with you for so long as you do not take a bath and wash it off. If you never take a bath again in your life, then you will have it always, as long as you like. No, the girl said. Yes, and on the day that you decide to take a bath, I will know that you do not any longer bother my picture. It will be a test of your admiration for my art. I do not like that idea, the girl said. His admiration for your art is so great that he would bathe and paint for many years. Let us have the tattoo and not nude. Then the girl said. I do not manage it. It is immensely simple. I will understand to teach you and to make. You will see. I shall go now and teach the instrument. I have inks of many different colors. As many different colors as you have painted are far more beautiful. It is important. I have many inks. Have I not many different colors of inks, the girl said. Yes, you will see. The girl said. I will go now and paint them. It was not my picture. I am working on this very hard with determination out of the room. In half an hour, the girl was back. I have brought everything, he cried. We even have brought his case. All the necessities of the tattoos are here in the bag. He placed the bag on the table, opened and laid out the electrician in it and a small bottle of chlorophyll. He took it in an electrician in it. Then he took the instrument in his hand and brushed it ashes. It made a buzzing sound because he used a mineral product. From then on, he used it daily to get up and down. He threw off his jacket and put up his sleeve. Now look, watch me and I will show you how easy it is. I will make a design on my own. Here. The forearm was already covered with blue masking tape. But he selected a small clear patch of skin open with two demonstrators. First, I chose mine. Let us use original blue. And I did the point of the nail in the ring. So, and I hold the nail up straight and I run it safely over the surface of the skin. Like this. And with a little motor and electricity, the nail jumps up and down and opens the skin and it explodes in the dark. See how easy it is. See how I draw a picture of a greenhouse here on my arm. The point was in three. Now, let me practice a bit. On your arm. With the passing nail, he begins to draw flow lines up and down the arm. It is simple. He said. It is like drawing with pen or ink. There is no difference that I draw it. There is nothing to it. Are you ready? Slowly begin. At once. The motor. Five dollars. Come on, Justin. He was in a post office. And two seconds now. Tottering around the room. Arranging everything. Like a child preparing for some exciting game. What would you have done? In a short distance, let's say standing there by my dressing table. Let her be brushing her hair. I would bend her hair high down over the shoulder and her brushing it. She means. You are a genius. We looked at it. The air was over and stood by the dressing table. Carried a glass of wine with her. The only cool of his shirt and spittle of his trousers. He was the only person in the family in his socks and shoes. And he stood there sobbing gently from side to side. His small boyfriend was in almost silence. Now he said. I am the canvas. Where would you place your canvas? As over up on the list. Don't be crazy. I am the canvas. Then place yourself up on the list. That is where you belong. How can I? Are you the canvas or are you not the canvas? I am the canvas. I already begin to feel like a canvas. Then place yourself up on the list. That should be not difficult. Should. It is not possible. Then sit on the chair. Sit back to the front. Then you can lean your drunken head against the back of it. Hurry now. For I am about to come in. I am ready. I am waiting. First, the boy said. I shall make an ordinary painting. Then, if it pleases me, I shall start to draw it. With a white brush, he began to paint over the naked skin of the man's body. Aye, aye. The other skin. A motion sensitive is marking down my time. Be still now. Be still. The boy worked directly up in the paint, holding a thin blue brush, so that it would not affect what was intended with the subject of the drawing. His concentration, as soon as he began to paint, was so great that it appeared somehow to spark his drunkenness. He applied the brush thoroughly. It just stood there, holding the brush still, and in less than half an hour, it was finished. All right. That's all. He said to the girl, who immediately returned to the coach, lay down and fall asleep. Rather remain awake. He watched the boy take off the mask and get into it. Then he felt the shock, shaking, shaking across the skin of his body. The pain which was unfeeling, but never extinguished from drunken sleep. By following the trail of the knee and by watching the different colors of skin that the boy was using, he tried to remember himself, trying to visualize what was going on behind him. The boy walked with an autonomous intensity. He appeared to have become completely absorbed into the little machine and in the unusual effect he was able to produce. Turning to the small hour of the morning to machine, the machine broke on the boy's work. The girl could remember that when the artist finally stepped back and said, it is finished, this was the last sigh on the sound before walking to sleep. I want to see it, the writer said. The boy held a mirror at the end and tried to plan his next look. Good, proud, he cried. He was as tired as I, the whole of his body, from the top of the shoulder at the back of the head. Time was a breath of cold. Gold and blue and blue and black and scarlet. The tattoo was agitated, so heavy and blue he almost looked like an impostor. The boy had four explosives, before the original bloodstock filled them in solid and it was marvelous the way he had made use of the spine and the proportions of the shoulder blades so that they become part of the composition. Worse not, he asked him how he managed to achieve it, even with his love project, a certain spontaneous. The portrait was quite elaborate. It contained much of the existing social, facial characteristics of so many other works. It was not a good quick line. It was more large than a likeness, the model's face, face and face, the background's variable hair, and a mass of dark green colored strokes. It's to me. I was like it myself. The boy stood back, examining it critically. You know, he acted. I think it's good enough for me. Time. I'm picking up the brush again. He explained his name very thin, on the right-hand side, over the place where the drawing of me was. The old man, who was called the driver, was standing at a sort of trench, staring at the painting in the window of the picture-beauty shop. It had been so long ago. All that, almost as though it had happened in another life. And the boy? What had become of him? He could remember now that after returning from the war, the first war, he had missing things and had questioned it just. Where's my little tankard? It's gone, he had answered. I do not know where, but I heard it said that they had taken him and sent him away to make more energy. Perhaps he will return. Perhaps he will. Who knows? That was the last time they had mentioned him. Shortly afterwards, they had moved to the yard, where there were more several ambition books there. The old man smiled. As I remember, he howled. Those were the places here. The year is in the war, with a small shop near the docks and a couple more rooms, and always enough work. With every day, three, four, five, sailors coming and going, pictures on the ramps. Those are truly the pleasant years. Then had come the second war, and Josephine killed, and the Germans arrived, and there was the finish of his business. No one had wanted pictures on the ramps anymore after that, and by that time he was too old for any other kind of work. In despair, he had made his way back to Paris, hoping already that peace would be issued in the big city, but there were none. And now, after the war was over, he thought that neither the means nor the energy to start up his small business again. It wasn't very easy for an old man to know what he had to do, especially when one did not like the other. Yet, how else could he think of that? Well, he thought he was a teacher, so that is my little family, and how could we decide upon what small objects are of this kind in the memory? After a few moments ago, he had even forgotten that he had two sons in Paris. He had been aged, and he had grown up already. He couldn't stay closer to the window and look into the gallery. On the wall, he could see many other pictures, and all seemed to be works of the same artist. There were a great number of people drawing around. Obviously, it was a special exhibition. From a standing pool, Gerlach saw the first sheet open, the door of the gallery unwinding. It was a long room with tight white-colored carpet, and by God, how beautiful and early it was. There were all those people strolling about looking at the picture, while watching it in a quiet view, each of whom had a kettle in their hand. Gerlach stood there inside the door, never least standing alone. One day, whenever he dared to go forward, a man with his coat. But before he had the time to gather his coat, he heard a voice beside him saying, What is it you want? The speaker wore a black modern coat. He was long and short, and had a beard with white stripes. He was a brave young man.