They give you a limited palette in life, with so few colors, and yet they expect you to draw a painting better than anyone else’s. There are so few things I can do, and so many I can’t, how can they expect me to succeed? How can they expect me to do better than those with more colours to mix?
I remember the day I walked in to dance for her. The room had two sets of mirrors almost the same size of the walls. One set infront of me and the other on the wall behind me. She, the ajudicator, was the only one in the room but the mirrors made me feel as if hundreds were watching. My feet were cold against the yellow laminate flooring. I had no dance shoes. My shape was contorted from my combination of stretch pants and an old tank top. The closest items in my closet to a leotard and tights. I didn’t want her to think i was a charity case. I wanted to prove how capable I was. I wanted her to look past my make shift ensemble and my being from the inner city. If my mother could have she would have paid for the classes without question but she couldn’t. So I walked in and I danced. My dry feet touched the cold floor after each direction she shouted, and I danced for that scholarship. Shamed as I was for not looking like the rest of the girls waiting. Their hair pulled into buns, legs covered with white tights, and feet adorned in piggy pink slippers. I danced.
It might be the more compelling piece. Wonderers seem to ask what tribulations, joy and sorrows were going on the artist’s brain. But do you honestly think that we’re that nimble? The palette is where the brain really is. All of the colors that have been seen through the day, in the dreams in the nights. That is what influences the entire product. More mysterious than…
there was a palette of emotions to choose from, she thought as she mused over her latest creation. he could be funny, but that would mean eliminating the already established cockiness because arrogance always decreased the value of hilarity. she would make him be one of those obnoxious child prodigies who were too smart and too perfect for their own good, but she didn’t want to play into common stereotypes.
she grinned. philosophy may have been a complete waste of a year in high school but it taught her one thing; if you don’t like the world you’re in, make one of your own.
The color of the sun, as yellow as a beautiful wild flower. The color of blood, but also the color of love. The color of the skies and the oceans. The colors of my feelings, all of them in this palette.
He looked back and forth between his latest victim and his bloody hands as he drew out her curves on the canvas. His palette had two colors, blood and a pale peach paint he brought with him. Despite his brutal yet well executed murders, he was an excellent painter, and he was completely convinced that this would be his masterpiece.
The artist’s palette is this tiny tool with thin slots for colors. Only three colors are needed – red, blue, and what was that last one? I think it was yellow. But what about black and white? And pink and purple and magenta and grass green and sunshine orange. We are more than a three color block, a little saying like “bleu, blanc, rouge.”
The taste of wine rolled off the palette of her tongue, sending a warm sensation through her body as it tumbled down her throat. With closed eyes she savored the taste; sweet cherries and a hint of roses.
The messy colors seemed mixed and scattered on the paint palette. Her brown hair was in a braid and she had streaks of paint on her face here and there. She was wearing one of my plaid flannel long sleeve shirts, with the sleeves rolled up. She finished a painting of a princess from a far away land. But in that moment with that innocent smile on her face, I knew she was the only princess I ever needed.
i ran my finger back and forth in his mouth and let out a low, throaty giggle. i remember the feel of his tongue in my ear. his panting a hair’s breadth from my eardrum. i remember how he seemed to catch my drift with that sort of thing. he’s dissapeared now. my most intimate moments, among the few ive had, have been reduced to massaging the palette of my cat’s fetished mouth.
my palette is pretty grey right now. i usually love color but i just don’t have the energy to look for it right now. you don’t seem to understand that breaking your heart meant breaking my own. that all the color i thought my world had actually ended up being nothing but a white light at the end of a tunnel.
In vocal class, I was taught how to stretch the soft palette in order to sing higher and softer. I loved learning how to manipulate and train my voice. My vocal recital at the end of my senior year was a life highlight.
palette
is where
ideas are started.
Where they mix
and mingle
and become something more
something that will
eventually
mean something
when they swirl together
on the canvas
When I think of he word palette an artist comes to mind because of all the colors they use. i also think of a taste palette and all the wonderful flavors that cme with food. I am sure that each type of foode emits a different flavor for each fperson
My palette begins to burn as a bite into the dip and the cowardly chip crackles in my mouth. The fire sauce that seemed to be all too overwhelming could make you sweat with a touch.
A palette. Your taste palette. The different things you experience, the sensations you feel, on your tongue. A palette of paint, so capable of painting the most beautiful images, a way to convey your imagination and allow others to perceive what you see in that wonderful mind of yours. Beauty. That is what palette is.
i don’t know if she’s really that concerned about me. these palettes of life smiles at me. but it tells me not to trust somebody alone with her gestures but with her heart and what my heart reflects back.
There are innumerable colors in my palette, and even though I am in my older youth, I still have many more colors to explore, color combinations, streaks, and mixtures! I used to think that life would get more boring when I got older, but I was wrong! Hooray!
Your face used to be a canvas on which I would paint emotions, say things to deliberately see you smile, grimace, make you laugh, scream, sigh. It used to be the only thing I ever thought about when I talked to you, making your eyebrows rise to the stars, curling your lips into a simple curve, cause the wrinkles around your eyes.
The palette of my mind is electric yellow, red balloon rouge, radioactive white, and the most royal of spray paint blue. It splatters the back of my eyelids in spritzes and drops, shocks and sparks. Each thought like an exploded plastic children’s toy in your face with my liquefied youth.
Palettes are the pieces of wood that remind me of my childhood. They remind of the days when me, my brother, and my friends used to build ramps out of them.
The king of the yuppies, used the word palette. “It cleanses the palette” he says, as he drones on and on about wine, and all of his money, not too proud to try his hand at the bartenders pants. He talks about scotch, and his love for it, but wears a dumb hat. In his gleaming whitened teeth, her reflection is seen rolling her eyes, as the first button on her shirt is loosened.
So many colours, pretty, fresh, strong, vivid, bold. Too many to choose from. Wheeling around, touching cans and sample cards. Something to live with for years to come, something to wake up with, something to have a headache with. Big responsibility. Choosing a new paint colour.
Dipping in joy
Dabbling in melancholy
Blending isolation, appreciation
Smearing searing pain
With smudged but vibrant love
Clashing perspectives with
Wide, unbending strokes
Of anger, remorse, forgiveness
Touching up with grace
i have no clue what palette. I think it’s like color palette . But i don’t really know. It’s snowing outside well a least it was a while ago. I’m gonna go into hibernation. I don’t like snow.
They give you a limited palette in life, with so few colors, and yet they expect you to draw a painting better than anyone else’s. There are so few things I can do, and so many I can’t, how can they expect me to succeed? How can they expect me to do better than those with more colours to mix?
I remember the day I walked in to dance for her. The room had two sets of mirrors almost the same size of the walls. One set infront of me and the other on the wall behind me. She, the ajudicator, was the only one in the room but the mirrors made me feel as if hundreds were watching. My feet were cold against the yellow laminate flooring. I had no dance shoes. My shape was contorted from my combination of stretch pants and an old tank top. The closest items in my closet to a leotard and tights. I didn’t want her to think i was a charity case. I wanted to prove how capable I was. I wanted her to look past my make shift ensemble and my being from the inner city. If my mother could have she would have paid for the classes without question but she couldn’t. So I walked in and I danced. My dry feet touched the cold floor after each direction she shouted, and I danced for that scholarship. Shamed as I was for not looking like the rest of the girls waiting. Their hair pulled into buns, legs covered with white tights, and feet adorned in piggy pink slippers. I danced.
It might be the more compelling piece. Wonderers seem to ask what tribulations, joy and sorrows were going on the artist’s brain. But do you honestly think that we’re that nimble? The palette is where the brain really is. All of the colors that have been seen through the day, in the dreams in the nights. That is what influences the entire product. More mysterious than…
there was a palette of emotions to choose from, she thought as she mused over her latest creation. he could be funny, but that would mean eliminating the already established cockiness because arrogance always decreased the value of hilarity. she would make him be one of those obnoxious child prodigies who were too smart and too perfect for their own good, but she didn’t want to play into common stereotypes.
she grinned. philosophy may have been a complete waste of a year in high school but it taught her one thing; if you don’t like the world you’re in, make one of your own.
The color of the sun, as yellow as a beautiful wild flower. The color of blood, but also the color of love. The color of the skies and the oceans. The colors of my feelings, all of them in this palette.
He looked back and forth between his latest victim and his bloody hands as he drew out her curves on the canvas. His palette had two colors, blood and a pale peach paint he brought with him. Despite his brutal yet well executed murders, he was an excellent painter, and he was completely convinced that this would be his masterpiece.
I played this game once on my Nintendo DS and it was this painting game. There was different palletes and some of them looked really pretty :))))
The artist’s palette is this tiny tool with thin slots for colors. Only three colors are needed – red, blue, and what was that last one? I think it was yellow. But what about black and white? And pink and purple and magenta and grass green and sunshine orange. We are more than a three color block, a little saying like “bleu, blanc, rouge.”
The taste of wine rolled off the palette of her tongue, sending a warm sensation through her body as it tumbled down her throat. With closed eyes she savored the taste; sweet cherries and a hint of roses.
did you know that theres an organ valve called a palette? and also a wine in southern france
The messy colors seemed mixed and scattered on the paint palette. Her brown hair was in a braid and she had streaks of paint on her face here and there. She was wearing one of my plaid flannel long sleeve shirts, with the sleeves rolled up. She finished a painting of a princess from a far away land. But in that moment with that innocent smile on her face, I knew she was the only princess I ever needed.
i ran my finger back and forth in his mouth and let out a low, throaty giggle. i remember the feel of his tongue in my ear. his panting a hair’s breadth from my eardrum. i remember how he seemed to catch my drift with that sort of thing. he’s dissapeared now. my most intimate moments, among the few ive had, have been reduced to massaging the palette of my cat’s fetished mouth.
My palette is ready with my beautiful colors, as I write and create my story and poem. My palette is full of colorful colors to learn and explore.
my palette is pretty grey right now. i usually love color but i just don’t have the energy to look for it right now. you don’t seem to understand that breaking your heart meant breaking my own. that all the color i thought my world had actually ended up being nothing but a white light at the end of a tunnel.
Painter who paints on his palette, He thinks of his love as a ocean that goes back anbd forth. He mixed his paint with a palette.
Palette
In vocal class, I was taught how to stretch the soft palette in order to sing higher and softer. I loved learning how to manipulate and train my voice. My vocal recital at the end of my senior year was a life highlight.
the palette of my mouth taste bitter, the palette that i paint on is lumpy, is that the same spelling for palette ?
palette
is where
ideas are started.
Where they mix
and mingle
and become something more
something that will
eventually
mean something
when they swirl together
on the canvas
When I think of he word palette an artist comes to mind because of all the colors they use. i also think of a taste palette and all the wonderful flavors that cme with food. I am sure that each type of foode emits a different flavor for each fperson
My palette begins to burn as a bite into the dip and the cowardly chip crackles in my mouth. The fire sauce that seemed to be all too overwhelming could make you sweat with a touch.
A palette. Your taste palette. The different things you experience, the sensations you feel, on your tongue. A palette of paint, so capable of painting the most beautiful images, a way to convey your imagination and allow others to perceive what you see in that wonderful mind of yours. Beauty. That is what palette is.
i don’t know if she’s really that concerned about me. these palettes of life smiles at me. but it tells me not to trust somebody alone with her gestures but with her heart and what my heart reflects back.
There are innumerable colors in my palette, and even though I am in my older youth, I still have many more colors to explore, color combinations, streaks, and mixtures! I used to think that life would get more boring when I got older, but I was wrong! Hooray!
Your face used to be a canvas on which I would paint emotions, say things to deliberately see you smile, grimace, make you laugh, scream, sigh. It used to be the only thing I ever thought about when I talked to you, making your eyebrows rise to the stars, curling your lips into a simple curve, cause the wrinkles around your eyes.
Sometimes, I wish I was an artist:
I wish I could simply pick up a palette and a brush and just create…something beautiful…something to be proud of.
“oui oui oui!” said the french artist as he painted merrily, the colors splattering on the canvas, lighting up the room and his soul.
My favorite palette contains teal, red, orange, black, silver, and lots of shiny.
The palette of my mind is electric yellow, red balloon rouge, radioactive white, and the most royal of spray paint blue. It splatters the back of my eyelids in spritzes and drops, shocks and sparks. Each thought like an exploded plastic children’s toy in your face with my liquefied youth.
A palette is a is something that is on a computer like a color palette.
i only know its sumthing related to computers
A palette is a load of things.
Palettes are the pieces of wood that remind me of my childhood. They remind of the days when me, my brother, and my friends used to build ramps out of them.
I think that’s the thing that people put paint on like those french people use. I’m not sure if I’m correct, but I think I am. If I’m wrong it’s okay.
The king of the yuppies, used the word palette. “It cleanses the palette” he says, as he drones on and on about wine, and all of his money, not too proud to try his hand at the bartenders pants. He talks about scotch, and his love for it, but wears a dumb hat. In his gleaming whitened teeth, her reflection is seen rolling her eyes, as the first button on her shirt is loosened.
Full of colour, optimism, hope, future, variety, excitement
So many colours, pretty, fresh, strong, vivid, bold. Too many to choose from. Wheeling around, touching cans and sample cards. Something to live with for years to come, something to wake up with, something to have a headache with. Big responsibility. Choosing a new paint colour.
ok.
Dipping in joy
Dabbling in melancholy
Blending isolation, appreciation
Smearing searing pain
With smudged but vibrant love
Clashing perspectives with
Wide, unbending strokes
Of anger, remorse, forgiveness
Touching up with grace
i have no clue what palette. I think it’s like color palette . But i don’t really know. It’s snowing outside well a least it was a while ago. I’m gonna go into hibernation. I don’t like snow.
There was many colors to choose from. What are the colors on your palette?