Her brush flowed across the canvas. The colors bled throughout the picture, filling it with life. She smiled as she dipped her brush into the paint once more, then let it glide, leaving a trail of vibrant blue behind it.
Jonaya
Making brush strokes as tall as he is, he gently glides the brush along the canvas like a bird amongst clouds.
I am my own painter
I have my brush
the colors are everywhere
it’s what we choose to see
is what we choose to say
to sway
eachother and ourselves
into lullabies and fantasies
and nightmares and realities
I can go rogue and paint you in a cube
or I could show off your crooked nose
Julia
I already wrote about painter. But, I used to imagine what I wanted to be when I grew up was a painter…or just artist. Then it came back when I was older. But I’m still not quite sure what I wanna be :P
Imani
Colors. Colors. So many colors. Every single color. Name a color. It’s there. There’s this guy painting this picture. And it has every color on it. It looks alright. A pretty average painting. But every color is on it. That’s pretty amazing. Every color.
tommy
painter joe was a pro and he was painting my house for 50$ That’s Cheap
Soft, delicated brushstrokes draped all over the canvas. It wasn’t the artist’s best work; but he loved it all the same. It was HIS, a unique creation that he himself had made.
Alyssa
Painters are the most misunderstood people of all. They are thought of as lost souls isolated from the world, who express their repressed emotions through the splatters of paint with their own lonesome self as company. But, if you choose to look beyond your stereotypes you’d notice how they aren’t separated from the world at all. In fact, they are conjoined with it – the insides of their minds blending seamlessly with their observations of the outside world, onto the canvas. They notice and observe everything around them much more than us ordinary men.
Ananya
She painted the sky, but then she realized that it wasn’t exactly how she wanted it, so she cover it half-heartedly. She missed sections, and those became the stars. A few days later when she looked through the holes, she wept, for her mistakes were more beautiful than her intentions.
Amanda
I will never be a painter, because i don’t have talent or hability with arts.
aaa
If I were a painter I would paint all kinds of glorious pictures of peaceful nature scenes and animals. The images would be colorful and happy. They would also bring calmness and delight to their viewers.
If I was a painter I would paint beautiful scenes of nature, animals and other peaceful settings. They would be clear and colorful and as realistic as possible. They would be happy, thought provoking images.
Jodi
Sometimes, Basilio paints.
Not very often, and never alone. Tobias is always by his side, posing dramatically or making comments or humming sweet, lulling tunes that will wrap around them so completely Basilio won’t even notice until he realizes that the painting is done and it’s nine at night.
i would say i am not a good painter. But I could paint your love, you know :p nah just kidding. It was a reference to an old song with the title ‘Paint My love’. Speaking of painting, I once wanted to be a graphic designer, because i love creating pictures and colors.
Janet Valentina
Breathlessly she waited. She pretended it was the cool of the night air that made her shudder, but it was the thought of constantly waiting. To become more of a fixture, a landmark, than a woman. She looked out on the road before her in the night, the light from her porch only stretching as far as the gate. The small dirt path wound around through the trees in the daylight, but in the haze of night it bled into the navy sky and if she were a painter she would have captured it all. The feeling it gave her, her choice. The path during the day, her home. The path at night, adventure.
Stella
I wish I were a painter. If I were a painter, I would first start by memorizing every curvature, sinew, tendon, freckle, and scar. Just about every other divine natural mishap that has etched itself in the making of you. But more than a painter, I want to be a creator. Create a way for you to find your way back to me. From there, I would paint for you a world of many moons and all the stars that have learned how to shine because of you. But for now, I’ll stick with my ten dollar easel and dollar store brushes. It is you who makes these puerile illustrations immeasurable to the wallet of every makeshift visual arts collector.
The painter paints in greens and blues and reds. He stands at the open window and takes no notice of the goings on around him. He looks only on the creations of his mind and his aching wrist. The painter goes on through the night until the light of the candles burn before him.
A robot stands jauntily in front of the store, holding a paintbrush. It is painting the store a new shade of white and whistling while it works. You wonder at the whistling and whether or not the builder programmed it in to increase business
Harley
you trace the edges of the paper, wondering idly what it could become
splattering globules of colour in a haphazardly orderly fashion
for there is reason in the insanity
what will you be, when there ceases to be inspiration?
*
The painter picked up the brush and considered the surface in front of him. The white wall still was covered with dust; his assistants had not been as diligent about preparing the surface, but he decided that it will do. Chances are that, by the evening, the slogans will have been removed anyway.
you’ve got a scruffy bit of overalls and some rodeo sneakers
take that silly scrunch off your face,
but whatever may help you carry on the strokes
maia
A smudge on her forehead said it all. So immersed in her painting she didn’t even realize the mess she had made. Finger prints all over her smock acting as another trophy to the success that was on the canvas before her.
Janis
incredulous cruddy crud. who does he think he is? just who. there’s no reason to be just so. stains and paints and stained, painted coveralls. he paints in splashes, regrets to cover these walls.
nobunny
he paints with his voice, an atmospheric haze that pulls me in and out and in and out of feeling. A mist that looks like 8 am by the sea.
sam
You always were my bet on the painter of the skies out here. I mean, the west coast has always been heavy handed with your favorite colors and the rains never seem to fade away – much like the storms you begged for as you lived so far away from the slightest drop.
She looked at the wall. ” I need something new and refreshing to make my art show a success”, she thought. She opened the windows, looking at the green pasture, birds flying and up at the bright blue sky to get the inspiration from the greated painter on the world!
He was a painter and he delighted in looking at the lines of her face, the skull of her heart, the bones and emptiness beneath which he claimed he understood her. But really, just because he could paint her, did that mean he knew anything about her? Did it really mean anything to paint a person’s body and insist from that that you could know anything about their mind?
Van Gogh is my favorite painter. I wonder when his paintings became worth so much.
Curtis Smale
There was a man who used to live down the street from us. Now that I think about it, he was a painter. Yes that’s right. He used to paint beautiful murals. He saved my life once. I can’t believe I’ve never told you this story.
Lili
A painter.
What is a painter? Is he the man who takes a wide paintbrush and sweeps it over the wall, leaving a trail of color? Is he the man who uses the small brush, to slowly add details to a strange and wonderful image? Or is he both?
I love painting. I used to watch my mother paint my father’s houses that he built from hand, from the ground up; when I was a little girl. It awakens something within me. It takes me back to this place where I am little, and nothing matters, except those single strokes, back and forth, mundane, pretty, clean.
S
She was a painter. Her pen was her brush and paper her canvas.
The painter swished his brush up and down, leaving white where there once was gray. He did not see the spectacularity in his work. He only did it because he needed the money to feed his family.
Someone who can create images with a brush. Something I can’t do well and someone I deeply respect. I can’t even paint my ugly bedroom- its stuck period blood red
Deirdre
I like drawing. And painting is pretty cool too. I like different form of art. Hmm, let’s ee….painting is…I mean, I do like painting, t’s just hard to make it “perfect” without tons of work at it. I mean, I haven’t painted that much, so that’s probably why I feel like that. I’ve pencil-drawn more, so I’m better at that :)
Imani
Nostalgia painted me on a canvas that says “stay here”.
I’m still living in a shadow of who I was last year.
Listening to music that held me when I was young,
it stops; back to the future — bitter taste left on my tongue.
Let me paint you how you were, like stars in the sky,
when we were still small, and with our heads still held up high.
Her brush flowed across the canvas. The colors bled throughout the picture, filling it with life. She smiled as she dipped her brush into the paint once more, then let it glide, leaving a trail of vibrant blue behind it.
Making brush strokes as tall as he is, he gently glides the brush along the canvas like a bird amongst clouds.
I am my own painter
I have my brush
the colors are everywhere
it’s what we choose to see
is what we choose to say
to sway
eachother and ourselves
into lullabies and fantasies
and nightmares and realities
I can go rogue and paint you in a cube
or I could show off your crooked nose
I already wrote about painter. But, I used to imagine what I wanted to be when I grew up was a painter…or just artist. Then it came back when I was older. But I’m still not quite sure what I wanna be :P
Colors. Colors. So many colors. Every single color. Name a color. It’s there. There’s this guy painting this picture. And it has every color on it. It looks alright. A pretty average painting. But every color is on it. That’s pretty amazing. Every color.
painter joe was a pro and he was painting my house for 50$ That’s Cheap
Soft, delicated brushstrokes draped all over the canvas. It wasn’t the artist’s best work; but he loved it all the same. It was HIS, a unique creation that he himself had made.
Painters are the most misunderstood people of all. They are thought of as lost souls isolated from the world, who express their repressed emotions through the splatters of paint with their own lonesome self as company. But, if you choose to look beyond your stereotypes you’d notice how they aren’t separated from the world at all. In fact, they are conjoined with it – the insides of their minds blending seamlessly with their observations of the outside world, onto the canvas. They notice and observe everything around them much more than us ordinary men.
She painted the sky, but then she realized that it wasn’t exactly how she wanted it, so she cover it half-heartedly. She missed sections, and those became the stars. A few days later when she looked through the holes, she wept, for her mistakes were more beautiful than her intentions.
I will never be a painter, because i don’t have talent or hability with arts.
If I were a painter I would paint all kinds of glorious pictures of peaceful nature scenes and animals. The images would be colorful and happy. They would also bring calmness and delight to their viewers.
If I was a painter I would paint beautiful scenes of nature, animals and other peaceful settings. They would be clear and colorful and as realistic as possible. They would be happy, thought provoking images.
Sometimes, Basilio paints.
Not very often, and never alone. Tobias is always by his side, posing dramatically or making comments or humming sweet, lulling tunes that will wrap around them so completely Basilio won’t even notice until he realizes that the painting is done and it’s nine at night.
i would say i am not a good painter. But I could paint your love, you know :p nah just kidding. It was a reference to an old song with the title ‘Paint My love’. Speaking of painting, I once wanted to be a graphic designer, because i love creating pictures and colors.
Breathlessly she waited. She pretended it was the cool of the night air that made her shudder, but it was the thought of constantly waiting. To become more of a fixture, a landmark, than a woman. She looked out on the road before her in the night, the light from her porch only stretching as far as the gate. The small dirt path wound around through the trees in the daylight, but in the haze of night it bled into the navy sky and if she were a painter she would have captured it all. The feeling it gave her, her choice. The path during the day, her home. The path at night, adventure.
I wish I were a painter. If I were a painter, I would first start by memorizing every curvature, sinew, tendon, freckle, and scar. Just about every other divine natural mishap that has etched itself in the making of you. But more than a painter, I want to be a creator. Create a way for you to find your way back to me. From there, I would paint for you a world of many moons and all the stars that have learned how to shine because of you. But for now, I’ll stick with my ten dollar easel and dollar store brushes. It is you who makes these puerile illustrations immeasurable to the wallet of every makeshift visual arts collector.
The painter paints in greens and blues and reds. He stands at the open window and takes no notice of the goings on around him. He looks only on the creations of his mind and his aching wrist. The painter goes on through the night until the light of the candles burn before him.
A robot stands jauntily in front of the store, holding a paintbrush. It is painting the store a new shade of white and whistling while it works. You wonder at the whistling and whether or not the builder programmed it in to increase business
you trace the edges of the paper, wondering idly what it could become
splattering globules of colour in a haphazardly orderly fashion
for there is reason in the insanity
what will you be, when there ceases to be inspiration?
The painter picked up the brush and considered the surface in front of him. The white wall still was covered with dust; his assistants had not been as diligent about preparing the surface, but he decided that it will do. Chances are that, by the evening, the slogans will have been removed anyway.
you’ve got a scruffy bit of overalls and some rodeo sneakers
take that silly scrunch off your face,
but whatever may help you carry on the strokes
A smudge on her forehead said it all. So immersed in her painting she didn’t even realize the mess she had made. Finger prints all over her smock acting as another trophy to the success that was on the canvas before her.
incredulous cruddy crud. who does he think he is? just who. there’s no reason to be just so. stains and paints and stained, painted coveralls. he paints in splashes, regrets to cover these walls.
he paints with his voice, an atmospheric haze that pulls me in and out and in and out of feeling. A mist that looks like 8 am by the sea.
You always were my bet on the painter of the skies out here. I mean, the west coast has always been heavy handed with your favorite colors and the rains never seem to fade away – much like the storms you begged for as you lived so far away from the slightest drop.
Thank you for being such a worldly artist.
She looked at the wall. ” I need something new and refreshing to make my art show a success”, she thought. She opened the windows, looking at the green pasture, birds flying and up at the bright blue sky to get the inspiration from the greated painter on the world!
He was a painter and he delighted in looking at the lines of her face, the skull of her heart, the bones and emptiness beneath which he claimed he understood her. But really, just because he could paint her, did that mean he knew anything about her? Did it really mean anything to paint a person’s body and insist from that that you could know anything about their mind?
Van Gogh is my favorite painter. I wonder when his paintings became worth so much.
There was a man who used to live down the street from us. Now that I think about it, he was a painter. Yes that’s right. He used to paint beautiful murals. He saved my life once. I can’t believe I’ve never told you this story.
A painter.
What is a painter? Is he the man who takes a wide paintbrush and sweeps it over the wall, leaving a trail of color? Is he the man who uses the small brush, to slowly add details to a strange and wonderful image? Or is he both?
I love painting. I used to watch my mother paint my father’s houses that he built from hand, from the ground up; when I was a little girl. It awakens something within me. It takes me back to this place where I am little, and nothing matters, except those single strokes, back and forth, mundane, pretty, clean.
She was a painter. Her pen was her brush and paper her canvas.
The painter swished his brush up and down, leaving white where there once was gray. He did not see the spectacularity in his work. He only did it because he needed the money to feed his family.
Someone who can create images with a brush. Something I can’t do well and someone I deeply respect. I can’t even paint my ugly bedroom- its stuck period blood red
I like drawing. And painting is pretty cool too. I like different form of art. Hmm, let’s ee….painting is…I mean, I do like painting, t’s just hard to make it “perfect” without tons of work at it. I mean, I haven’t painted that much, so that’s probably why I feel like that. I’ve pencil-drawn more, so I’m better at that :)
Nostalgia painted me on a canvas that says “stay here”.
I’m still living in a shadow of who I was last year.
Listening to music that held me when I was young,
it stops; back to the future — bitter taste left on my tongue.
Let me paint you how you were, like stars in the sky,
when we were still small, and with our heads still held up high.
The painter jo Painted my house Red with blood on the windows and knives on the floor
Hi Could you go get me some ice cream. could you go pick up my xbox one game for tomorrow.
The painter, Jon came and painted my house blue. He is the nicest guy ever and we are now good friends. He also is a farmer.
The painter paint the house blue,yellow for the owner.