It looked good, but he was not yet satisfied. Albert stood at his easel, watching the brown splatter of paint drip down. He turned to the oscillating fan, and tossed in a slightly lighter brown paint which covered his face and hair, but some had also hit the canvas, wall and floor.
Then he filled his mouth with a slightly reddish dark brown, climbed the stepladder with his electric egg beater and dove toward the canvas, spitting the paint through its rotating arms in the direction of the six-foot square canvas. He was used to the sting of paint in his eyes, but it still distracted him on his landing. His ulna cracked as he hit the floor.
Bruised, bloodied and broken, he panted as he stood up. “Edna!” he cried, “Edna! Come here! Come! My masterpiece is finished!”
Edna, a diminutive bespectacled art critic and his life partner, walked in. After a long, thoughtful pause, she said, “You should have gone with a summer palette.”
Red, blue, orange, green, purple, yellow, black, and white.
Paint your life with colors, because remember, you are the artist of your life. No one can tell you how to live your life.
It looked good, but he was not yet satisfied. Albert stood at his easel, watching the brown splatter of drip down. He turneed to the oscillating fan, and tossed in a slightly lighter brown paint which covered his face and hair, but some had also hit the canvas, wall and floor.
Then he filled his mouth with a slightly reddish dark brown, climbed the stepladder with his electric egg beater and dove toward the canvas, spitting the paint through its rotating arms in the direction of the six-foot square canvas. He was used to the sting of paint in his eyes, but it still distracted him on his landing. His ulna cracked as he hit the floor.
Bruised, bloodied and broken, he panted as he stood up. “Edna!” he cried, “Edna! Come here! Come! My masterpiece is finished!”
Edna, a diminutive bespectacled art critic and his life partner, walked in. After a long, thoughtful pause, she said, “You should have gone with a summer palette.”
a colorful thing usually but can refer to things that are taste worthy. ugly, edible, frothy, bubbly, all suited to taste and suited to you. individual love of things, or hatred throughout the spectrum of a wooden plate ready to be dabbed with brushes. instruments for the spectrum of human creativity and interest. love of all things in little dabbles spurted from cans – or just refusal of leftover broccoli
The thin wooden palette was all that separated them, and as such, he held it in front of him like a makeshift shield. “That’s not– no, you can’t–” He gave up as the words he had been looking for broke down into unintelligible mush. “You’re not supposed to eat that.” He mumbles instead, tearfully looking down at what was once his prized scorpion. “It was supposed to be the model for my newest painting…”
We have pals, buds and chums. We also have dudes (for buds), guys (for chums) and, for some, we have palettes. Not quite a pal, but someone you remember well.
paintbrush, flying, whirling, mixing, yellow, gold, green, trees and grass and meadows, darkness, purples, silvery inferno of shade, merci pour le venin, quiet music in the background, accentuating, screaming, but it just all mixes together so perfectly.
I love art palettes. The vintagey wooden kind with like smears of oil paint all over them. of course, MY pallettes never look like that, i end up with a brown mess of whatever color i was using to paint… still, I love watching people paint and mix all the colors and get such amazingly beautiful combinations ^_^
The Colors he used to create this world was so incredible he dazzled the woman in half a second. A New world, entirely real, magical, created by the tip of this brush.
I stare at my dull and boring canvas, tears welling up behind my stormy blue eyes. I had so many chances to create a work of art, and yet there it sttod before me, covered in nothing but smudges and regret. Picking up my palette I studied the array of colors, pondering if it was too late to start fresh. If only I could find the motivation…
her palette of paints- dried, so the colors aren’t quite right. they set too fast. and the plastic palette lies there pretty, paint stroked and color favor, but her canvas shines, white and light, strangely uncovered. unprotected, lonely.
what an odd mix to come across. and now, now it all makes sense: a hiding, a blending, a weird shade here and there. i excused you, and when i didn’t anymore(when i wore out) you left because you couldn’t hide those ugly, ugly truths.
I was swimming today, and practice was terrible. I forgot my goggles, so I had to use someone else’s prescription goggles. Everything was blurry, and I must’ve smashed my fingers on the lane lines about ten times.
There was a light at the end of the lane, though, and I’m not sure, but the prescribed goggles gave me nothing but an array of colors.
Pixelated colors, a palette of different hues. Telling me exactly where to go.
Colors. Rainbows. Canvases painted from nothing to magnificence. Trees that we know whatnot and skies that are everlasting blue. Nothing and everything from the real world.
The watered pigments run together on my palette, messing up the colours I have so carefully prepared. I sigh in frustration as I try to wipe away the watery paints, succeeding only in mixing them further.
the person in the palette is the one you should be talking about. Why? Because he told me that he knows something called “Beastman.” What is that Beastman you say? How should I know? I sell oranges for a living. It’s a life that no one, not even that guy who asks a lot of questions. what’s his name? Aristotle? No, Socrates. That’s all I know for now. Okay, this is ridiculous. What just happened? I thought this was over. But apparently, it’s not. Oh well. Back to the drawing board. So there was this one man the other day who couldn’t stop liking oranges. Yes, oranges. He was a man of great demeanor. And he would speak in riddles. A man of the secular life.
a palette is an array of colours – offering a whole rainbow – trying not to think – a palette is the taste in your mouth – an acquired taste like wine takes alot of getting used to and eventually you love it!
The color palette was simple, and Kelsi stepped back to observe her work. She wasn’t much of a painter, but she knew her colors. The white hair of Winter was perfectly polished with blue, as was the dark cloak of Nanashi. Oh, how she knew that place so well. It haunted all of her dreams. How could she go wrong in painting it?
Isn’t it a joy looking inward, onto your own palette. A myriad of tastes unique to you, pieces shared with those around you. What you appreciate, what you attend to and care about.. for, and for me the palette is small, the interests full and yet not nearly appreciated enough.
The used colors were dull. Most painters went for the brighter, new colors. But me? I use the old. Because the used colors are the ones with the most story to tell, they’re the ones that have the most history and the most experience and the best stories.
She looks at her paint palette filled with all the colors in the world she dips her brush into the black and strokes the blank canvas all she can do is feel lonely why should she use all the bright color black is how she feels lonely with no one there to hold her close also why should the bright colors be picked there to bright and optimistic she knows she will never pick those colors because of something deep inside of her she knows all the bright beautiful colors get picked not the gloomy, mysterious black that will always be lonely
You made an inedible soup that looked pretty on papery canvasses. You stroked it with hairy fingers and bristles just like your mustache. A mix of color to splash on my face and hands.
You liked to make my skin blue around my hazel eyes. I looked like an elven creature from. You found it very beautiful.
her brushed strokes erupted on the page; leaving a fury of colours in its trail.
when the artist’s instrument was close to withering out it returned to its home:
a familiar nourishing and vibrant; the palette
A palette of colors. A myriad of colors. All the colors of the rainbow, the spectrum, whatever you want to call it. There are a million different shades and tones – the possibilities are endless. Try and name them all? Yeah right. There are too many combinations that one could choose from. And isn’t that a beautiful thing?
He colors my palette
With his soft, green eyes
It fills with wonders of joy
Colored with the yellows of warmth
emitted from his gaze
The minute he looks away
My palette turns grey
Dullness returns to my canvas
Back to how it used to be
my palette is quite peculiar, you probably won’t meet anyone that likes the same things as me really, the tastes are only right for me, and they do taste oh so lovely. i like blood, i can’t help it, i like it a lot.
I hope this means the palette in your mouth. Otherwise known as your taste buds. This makes me think of food, which makes me hungry……..
Gosh I’m just so sad.
:,(
They say the eyes are the windows of the soul but the sign at the door of my office building says “PLEASE REMOVE SOULS BEFORE ENTERING” so I leave my soul at home reading a book and eating toast in bed, and my soul-less eyes sit here at the desk looking at the walls: a palette of pallid; embellished with the detritus of previous inmates; adorned with lame attempts at life.
Splash!
It looked good, but he was not yet satisfied. Albert stood at his easel, watching the brown splatter of paint drip down. He turned to the oscillating fan, and tossed in a slightly lighter brown paint which covered his face and hair, but some had also hit the canvas, wall and floor.
Then he filled his mouth with a slightly reddish dark brown, climbed the stepladder with his electric egg beater and dove toward the canvas, spitting the paint through its rotating arms in the direction of the six-foot square canvas. He was used to the sting of paint in his eyes, but it still distracted him on his landing. His ulna cracked as he hit the floor.
Bruised, bloodied and broken, he panted as he stood up. “Edna!” he cried, “Edna! Come here! Come! My masterpiece is finished!”
Edna, a diminutive bespectacled art critic and his life partner, walked in. After a long, thoughtful pause, she said, “You should have gone with a summer palette.”
Red, blue, orange, green, purple, yellow, black, and white.
Paint your life with colors, because remember, you are the artist of your life. No one can tell you how to live your life.
Splash!
It looked good, but he was not yet satisfied. Albert stood at his easel, watching the brown splatter of drip down. He turneed to the oscillating fan, and tossed in a slightly lighter brown paint which covered his face and hair, but some had also hit the canvas, wall and floor.
Then he filled his mouth with a slightly reddish dark brown, climbed the stepladder with his electric egg beater and dove toward the canvas, spitting the paint through its rotating arms in the direction of the six-foot square canvas. He was used to the sting of paint in his eyes, but it still distracted him on his landing. His ulna cracked as he hit the floor.
Bruised, bloodied and broken, he panted as he stood up. “Edna!” he cried, “Edna! Come here! Come! My masterpiece is finished!”
Edna, a diminutive bespectacled art critic and his life partner, walked in. After a long, thoughtful pause, she said, “You should have gone with a summer palette.”
a colorful thing usually but can refer to things that are taste worthy. ugly, edible, frothy, bubbly, all suited to taste and suited to you. individual love of things, or hatred throughout the spectrum of a wooden plate ready to be dabbed with brushes. instruments for the spectrum of human creativity and interest. love of all things in little dabbles spurted from cans – or just refusal of leftover broccoli
Artists tool. Architects helper.nicely spelled. French?
The thin wooden palette was all that separated them, and as such, he held it in front of him like a makeshift shield. “That’s not– no, you can’t–” He gave up as the words he had been looking for broke down into unintelligible mush. “You’re not supposed to eat that.” He mumbles instead, tearfully looking down at what was once his prized scorpion. “It was supposed to be the model for my newest painting…”
We have pals, buds and chums. We also have dudes (for buds), guys (for chums) and, for some, we have palettes. Not quite a pal, but someone you remember well.
paintbrush, flying, whirling, mixing, yellow, gold, green, trees and grass and meadows, darkness, purples, silvery inferno of shade, merci pour le venin, quiet music in the background, accentuating, screaming, but it just all mixes together so perfectly.
I love art palettes. The vintagey wooden kind with like smears of oil paint all over them. of course, MY pallettes never look like that, i end up with a brown mess of whatever color i was using to paint… still, I love watching people paint and mix all the colors and get such amazingly beautiful combinations ^_^
The Colors he used to create this world was so incredible he dazzled the woman in half a second. A New world, entirely real, magical, created by the tip of this brush.
I stare at my dull and boring canvas, tears welling up behind my stormy blue eyes. I had so many chances to create a work of art, and yet there it sttod before me, covered in nothing but smudges and regret. Picking up my palette I studied the array of colors, pondering if it was too late to start fresh. If only I could find the motivation…
her palette of paints- dried, so the colors aren’t quite right. they set too fast. and the plastic palette lies there pretty, paint stroked and color favor, but her canvas shines, white and light, strangely uncovered. unprotected, lonely.
I use a palette to hold my paint. The paint that may make my boring picture come to life. As I pose there with my palette looking like an artist.
what an odd mix to come across. and now, now it all makes sense: a hiding, a blending, a weird shade here and there. i excused you, and when i didn’t anymore(when i wore out) you left because you couldn’t hide those ugly, ugly truths.
A palette? Ummmmm, for different colored paints? Or maybe – how refined is your palette? Do you like fish sticks or sushi?
what’s palette???
I was swimming today, and practice was terrible. I forgot my goggles, so I had to use someone else’s prescription goggles. Everything was blurry, and I must’ve smashed my fingers on the lane lines about ten times.
There was a light at the end of the lane, though, and I’m not sure, but the prescribed goggles gave me nothing but an array of colors.
Pixelated colors, a palette of different hues. Telling me exactly where to go.
Colors. Rainbows. Canvases painted from nothing to magnificence. Trees that we know whatnot and skies that are everlasting blue. Nothing and everything from the real world.
Red. Yellow. Purple.
Green. Blue. Orange.
Colors smeared across my palette.
All eventually mixing together,
turning into a sludge brown.
The watered pigments run together on my palette, messing up the colours I have so carefully prepared. I sigh in frustration as I try to wipe away the watery paints, succeeding only in mixing them further.
the person in the palette is the one you should be talking about. Why? Because he told me that he knows something called “Beastman.” What is that Beastman you say? How should I know? I sell oranges for a living. It’s a life that no one, not even that guy who asks a lot of questions. what’s his name? Aristotle? No, Socrates. That’s all I know for now. Okay, this is ridiculous. What just happened? I thought this was over. But apparently, it’s not. Oh well. Back to the drawing board. So there was this one man the other day who couldn’t stop liking oranges. Yes, oranges. He was a man of great demeanor. And he would speak in riddles. A man of the secular life.
a palette is an array of colours – offering a whole rainbow – trying not to think – a palette is the taste in your mouth – an acquired taste like wine takes alot of getting used to and eventually you love it!
The color palette was simple, and Kelsi stepped back to observe her work. She wasn’t much of a painter, but she knew her colors. The white hair of Winter was perfectly polished with blue, as was the dark cloak of Nanashi. Oh, how she knew that place so well. It haunted all of her dreams. How could she go wrong in painting it?
Isn’t it a joy looking inward, onto your own palette. A myriad of tastes unique to you, pieces shared with those around you. What you appreciate, what you attend to and care about.. for, and for me the palette is small, the interests full and yet not nearly appreciated enough.
The used colors were dull. Most painters went for the brighter, new colors. But me? I use the old. Because the used colors are the ones with the most story to tell, they’re the ones that have the most history and the most experience and the best stories.
She looks at her paint palette filled with all the colors in the world she dips her brush into the black and strokes the blank canvas all she can do is feel lonely why should she use all the bright color black is how she feels lonely with no one there to hold her close also why should the bright colors be picked there to bright and optimistic she knows she will never pick those colors because of something deep inside of her she knows all the bright beautiful colors get picked not the gloomy, mysterious black that will always be lonely
You made an inedible soup that looked pretty on papery canvasses. You stroked it with hairy fingers and bristles just like your mustache. A mix of color to splash on my face and hands.
You liked to make my skin blue around my hazel eyes. I looked like an elven creature from. You found it very beautiful.
her brushed strokes erupted on the page; leaving a fury of colours in its trail.
when the artist’s instrument was close to withering out it returned to its home:
a familiar nourishing and vibrant; the palette
A palette of colors. A myriad of colors. All the colors of the rainbow, the spectrum, whatever you want to call it. There are a million different shades and tones – the possibilities are endless. Try and name them all? Yeah right. There are too many combinations that one could choose from. And isn’t that a beautiful thing?
a million possibilities in one little palette
Palette knives lack. They only serve for collections and not divisions. Plato would find them half a rhetorician.
where, you say? where? where. wear the drippings of a lost cause. silent adjectives borne to blazing huddled minds.
He colors my palette
With his soft, green eyes
It fills with wonders of joy
Colored with the yellows of warmth
emitted from his gaze
The minute he looks away
My palette turns grey
Dullness returns to my canvas
Back to how it used to be
Your eyes had their own color palette. A silk, liquidy gold that you could dive into.
P.A.L.E.T.T.E.
Paul Announced, “Love Everyone!” Tonight, Tomorrow. Enough!
my palette is quite peculiar, you probably won’t meet anyone that likes the same things as me really, the tastes are only right for me, and they do taste oh so lovely. i like blood, i can’t help it, i like it a lot.
the art palette laid in my hand. its colors bled together as i watched the page, brushes wiping across some how making a picture.
“Pleasing to the palette,” Joey smiled, looking up at our father who had cooked the food.
I laughed. Joe always used the best words.
I hope this means the palette in your mouth. Otherwise known as your taste buds. This makes me think of food, which makes me hungry……..
Gosh I’m just so sad.
:,(
They say the eyes are the windows of the soul but the sign at the door of my office building says “PLEASE REMOVE SOULS BEFORE ENTERING” so I leave my soul at home reading a book and eating toast in bed, and my soul-less eyes sit here at the desk looking at the walls: a palette of pallid; embellished with the detritus of previous inmates; adorned with lame attempts at life.