http://browse.deviantart.com/digitalart/typography/?order=9&q=yard+sign deviantART RSS for boost:popular in:digitalart/typography yard sign en-us Copyright 2013, deviantART.com Wed, 22 May 2013 06:15:24 PDT deviantART.com http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss http://st.deviantart.net/minish/widgets/apple-touch-icon-precomposed.png http://msklystron.deviantart.com/art/The-Unwilling-Gardener-134623375 http://msklystron.deviantart.com/art/The-Unwilling-Gardener-134623375 Mon, 24 Aug 2009 15:55:31 PDT The Unwilling Gardener nonadult digitalart/typography/other msklystron http://a.deviantart.net/avatars/m/s/msklystron.jpg Copyright 2009-2013 *msklystron
Based on the concept of Post Secrets, a G-rated example for the 'Confessions' contest. [link] Although I've stretched the truth a fair bit, this still verges on creative non-fiction.

Here's the text in case it's difficult to read above:

Dear Post Secret,
I am like Agent Orange to plant life.
This morning, at the gardening centre, I’d asked the clerk the cost of a strawberry plant.
“Eight-ninety-nine,” she’d replied. “I’ve been telling customers they should buy two at that price.”
“One will do just fine,” I’d smiled. “Two would be double vegecide.”
Clearly, I hadn’t stopped thinking of myself as an unwilling gardener. The real gardener, my ex, had left me to tend another woman’s flowers two springs ago. A natural with all things green, he’d taken care of our suburban lot without any assistance from me, unless you counted the time he’d asked me to do some weeding and I’d pulled out the newly planted phlox.
Years ago, when my former spouse and I had moved to this house, I’d planned on developing a green thumb, but the first time I’d turned over a spade full of dirt, I’d disinterred a starling corpse.
“It’s not that maggoty,” my former spouse had said.
There were degrees of maggotiness? Not wanting to know the answer to this question and content to let any other surprises the earth might hold wait forever – I’d turned in my spade.
But forever arrived. I was head gardener. My first foray into horticulture began with learning how to use a lawnmower. It was a breeze, because it was so much like vacuuming, but I felt rather bad when I accidently ran over a bullfrog, hacking the poor thing to bits with the spinning blades…
However, my real initiation as a gardener had begun the following spring. I recall having stood on the porch overlooking the backyard, realizing that the small spade in my hand was unequal to the task. What I needed was a bulldozer.
I’d barely taken in the jungle when my eyes fell upon the north side of the house, where the hillock butting up against it had eroded. The earth had slid onto the patio, like a giant mud-pie left out in the rain. A backhoe would have been nice, but I grabbed a shovel and started digging. A battalion of sal bugs scuttled away to take up positions elsewhere. After a few shovelfuls, I looked down to see what else I’d unearthed. I found a small, green G.I. Joe and… a peanut. You’d think I would have recognized this as a sign from rodentia. Little did I know at the time that squirrels had waged war on my property. Oblivious, I kept digging until my red-haired neighbor, who’d known about my brown thumb, dropped by to lend a hand.
She and I contemplated the gardens. I pointed out the native flowers and shrubs (which my ex had planted when we were still newlyweds) poking their delicate heads out of the soil – trilliums, cohosh, wild ginger, bloodroot, meadow rue, mustard and may apples.
“They’re okay,” she said. “Your garden needs color.” Her yard was a sun-soaked Eden, glorious with showy blooms. I gestured at my mature trees. “If you had a container,” she said, grand ideas hatching under her red locks, “we could put it on the patio where there’s less shade.”
I did have a large, stone planter among junk beside the shed. It weighed as much as a Volkswagen, so we rolled it on its side, like a stolen hubcap, into the backyard.
That done, before she left, glancing back at the overgrown garden beds, she instructed me to pull the weeds at the border. “That’ll tidy them up,” she said.
It didn’t. In two of three gardens, hiding behind the dandelions was something far worse – thistles, raspberry canes with roots that probably stretched down to the Earth’s core and hundreds of leggy parasitic weeds with alien-green stalks coated in prickly hairs. In that moment, I knew that these gardens would have to be completely ripped out and grassed over. It took me three days, my back and hands aching from bending and yanking, and my exposed skin covered in a thousand bug bites and small cuts.
Nevertheless, after I’d wrenched out the last interloper, I realized that the remainder of the job would involve skills I excelled at – redecorating. I could simply take my knack for knowing how to arrange furniture and hang paintings and apply it to the great outdoors.
Of course, at the time, I didn’t know the squirrels, the ones who’d left the peanut behind, would eat the roots of dozens of impatiens, leaving the flowers standing precariously on their stems so that nothing seemed amiss, until I turned on the hose and shot the rootless flowers down like midway-game ducks.
I also wished someone had warned me about the high death toll. Begonias, petunias, peonies, campanula, clemati, or, if you prefer, clematises – regardless, I killed them all. The most grief-inducing losses were the bean plants, grown by my daughters in school and presented to me as Mother’s Day gifts. Each potential beanstalk had withered under my clumsy ministrations. At one point, I considered placing tiny gravestones on the barren earth between the weeds. To cheer me up, my niece and nephew bought me two fake sunflowers. Feeling like Scarlett Ohara, I thrust the plastic stems into the dirt.
Those sunflowers were an inspiration. Weeds couldn’t grow without space and light. Rummaging around in the junk beside the shed, I found an old birdfeeder, the pedestal of busted birdbath, a birch log, painted bricks and cracked cinder blocks – all of which I deposited in the remaining garden. The next time I was at the nursery, I bought four plaster garden fairies – one to represent each daughter. Standing back to survey the effect, although the overall theme was entropy rather than rebirth, I was quite pleased.
This afternoon, I planted marigolds and morning glories, which I’d grown from seeds bought at the dollar store (which is where all brown thumbs shop). I sprinkled cayenne pepper around the impatiens to keep the squirrels away. Then, I hung up the strawberry plant in a sunny spot where the girls would see it when they came home from school.
Not too bad for an unwilling gardener, I told myself. ]]>
Based on the concept of Post Secrets, a G-rated example for the 'Confessions' contest. [link] Although I've stretched the truth a fair bit, this still verges on creative non-fiction.

Here's the text in case it's difficult to read above:

Dear Post Secret,
I am like Agent Orange to plant life.
This morning, at the gardening centre, I’d asked the clerk the cost of a strawberry plant.
“Eight-ninety-nine,” she’d replied. “I’ve been telling customers they should buy two at that price.”
“One will do just fine,” I’d smiled. “Two would be double vegecide.”
Clearly, I hadn’t stopped thinking of myself as an unwilling gardener. The real gardener, my ex, had left me to tend another woman’s flowers two springs ago. A natural with all things green, he’d taken care of our suburban lot without any assistance from me, unless you counted the time he’d asked me to do some weeding and I’d pulled out the newly planted phlox.
Years ago, when my former spouse and I had moved to this house, I’d planned on developing a green thumb, but the first time I’d turned over a spade full of dirt, I’d disinterred a starling corpse.
“It’s not that maggoty,” my former spouse had said.
There were degrees of maggotiness? Not wanting to know the answer to this question and content to let any other surprises the earth might hold wait forever – I’d turned in my spade.
But forever arrived. I was head gardener. My first foray into horticulture began with learning how to use a lawnmower. It was a breeze, because it was so much like vacuuming, but I felt rather bad when I accidently ran over a bullfrog, hacking the poor thing to bits with the spinning blades…
However, my real initiation as a gardener had begun the following spring. I recall having stood on the porch overlooking the backyard, realizing that the small spade in my hand was unequal to the task. What I needed was a bulldozer.
I’d barely taken in the jungle when my eyes fell upon the north side of the house, where the hillock butting up against it had eroded. The earth had slid onto the patio, like a giant mud-pie left out in the rain. A backhoe would have been nice, but I grabbed a shovel and started digging. A battalion of sal bugs scuttled away to take up positions elsewhere. After a few shovelfuls, I looked down to see what else I’d unearthed. I found a small, green G.I. Joe and… a peanut. You’d think I would have recognized this as a sign from rodentia. Little did I know at the time that squirrels had waged war on my property. Oblivious, I kept digging until my red-haired neighbor, who’d known about my brown thumb, dropped by to lend a hand.
She and I contemplated the gardens. I pointed out the native flowers and shrubs (which my ex had planted when we were still newlyweds) poking their delicate heads out of the soil – trilliums, cohosh, wild ginger, bloodroot, meadow rue, mustard and may apples.
“They’re okay,” she said. “Your garden needs color.” Her yard was a sun-soaked Eden, glorious with showy blooms. I gestured at my mature trees. “If you had a container,” she said, grand ideas hatching under her red locks, “we could put it on the patio where there’s less shade.”
I did have a large, stone planter among junk beside the shed. It weighed as much as a Volkswagen, so we rolled it on its side, like a stolen hubcap, into the backyard.
That done, before she left, glancing back at the overgrown garden beds, she instructed me to pull the weeds at the border. “That’ll tidy them up,” she said.
It didn’t. In two of three gardens, hiding behind the dandelions was something far worse – thistles, raspberry canes with roots that probably stretched down to the Earth’s core and hundreds of leggy parasitic weeds with alien-green stalks coated in prickly hairs. In that moment, I knew that these gardens would have to be completely ripped out and grassed over. It took me three days, my back and hands aching from bending and yanking, and my exposed skin covered in a thousand bug bites and small cuts.
Nevertheless, after I’d wrenched out the last interloper, I realized that the remainder of the job would involve skills I excelled at – redecorating. I could simply take my knack for knowing how to arrange furniture and hang paintings and apply it to the great outdoors.
Of course, at the time, I didn’t know the squirrels, the ones who’d left the peanut behind, would eat the roots of dozens of impatiens, leaving the flowers standing precariously on their stems so that nothing seemed amiss, until I turned on the hose and shot the rootless flowers down like midway-game ducks.
I also wished someone had warned me about the high death toll. Begonias, petunias, peonies, campanula, clemati, or, if you prefer, clematises – regardless, I killed them all. The most grief-inducing losses were the bean plants, grown by my daughters in school and presented to me as Mother’s Day gifts. Each potential beanstalk had withered under my clumsy ministrations. At one point, I considered placing tiny gravestones on the barren earth between the weeds. To cheer me up, my niece and nephew bought me two fake sunflowers. Feeling like Scarlett Ohara, I thrust the plastic stems into the dirt.
Those sunflowers were an inspiration. Weeds couldn’t grow without space and light. Rummaging around in the junk beside the shed, I found an old birdfeeder, the pedestal of busted birdbath, a birch log, painted bricks and cracked cinder blocks – all of which I deposited in the remaining garden. The next time I was at the nursery, I bought four plaster garden fairies – one to represent each daughter. Standing back to survey the effect, although the overall theme was entropy rather than rebirth, I was quite pleased.
This afternoon, I planted marigolds and morning glories, which I’d grown from seeds bought at the dollar store (which is where all brown thumbs shop). I sprinkled cayenne pepper around the impatiens to keep the squirrels away. Then, I hung up the strawberry plant in a sunny spot where the girls would see it when they came home from school.
Not too bad for an unwilling gardener, I told myself.

]]> http://firebird69.deviantart.com/art/Carlos-Conway-Yard-Sign-Rich-Black-on-Teal-313918852 http://firebird69.deviantart.com/art/Carlos-Conway-Yard-Sign-Rich-Black-on-Teal-313918852 Tue, 10 Jul 2012 18:57:34 PDT Carlos Conway Yard Sign, Rich Black on Teal nonadult digitalart/typography/textbased Firebird69 http://a.deviantart.net/avatars/f/i/firebird69.jpg?2 Copyright 2012-2013 ~Firebird69 Non-profit conceptual work of a campaign yard sign for Carlos Conway out of St. Paul 65B.
[Voteforcarlos.org] ]]> Non-profit conceptual work of a campaign yard sign for Carlos Conway out of St. Paul 65B.
[Voteforcarlos.org]

]]> http://moderngiant.deviantart.com/art/It-s-Time-Political-Sign-251571754 http://moderngiant.deviantart.com/art/It-s-Time-Political-Sign-251571754 Sun, 07 Aug 2011 14:51:20 PDT It's Time -- Political Sign nonadult digitalart/typography/other moderngiant http://a.deviantart.net/avatars/m/o/moderngiant.jpg?4 Copyright 2011-2013 ~moderngiant

]]> http://xanner.deviantart.com/art/Rediscover-Christmas-46755444 http://xanner.deviantart.com/art/Rediscover-Christmas-46755444 Mon, 15 Jan 2007 20:33:52 PST Rediscover Christmas nonadult digitalart/typography/other Xanner http://a.deviantart.net/avatars/x/a/xanner.gif Copyright 2007-2013 ~Xanner

Rediscover Christmas : Discover Christ ]]>

Rediscover Christmas : Discover Christ

]]>