Painters, they are artists with a brush and canvas. Different painter work in different ways. Some see images in their minds and recreate them on paper, others just start without knowing what they are going to create.
i am a painter. I deep inside feel that I want to marry a painter who can paint me in to pootrait and I can feel so loved. I am obsessed with a painter these days
i wish to become a thorough professional in the world of painintng if I wasnt thrown into the world of papers and study I would have devoted my life to painting.
i am a painter. I deep inside feel that I want to marry a painter who can paint me in to pootrait and I can feel so loved. I am obsessed with a painter these days
painter is a person who paints church’s/houses/work places, etc. & they get money from it and can pro. be rich from it and they paint a lot of cool different places.
Heute ist A. eine Painterin. Sie streicht ihre Wand weiß. Kinderzeichnungen. Tusche. Mit einer Freundin. Vor vielen Jahren. So lange haben wir jetzt gebraucht, dabei war es doch ganz leicht, das Kreppband zu kaufen, die Malerfolie und die Farbe aus dem Keller zu holen und das Wandstreichen anzugehen.
the painter perched up on a balcony edge; large and in charge; a useless world beneath him, he strokes towards hindsight colors and hues of a mystic valley, a place now not unknown.
the painter visualizes his eutopia frame in fantasty
leaves a hold of reality
becomes one with the paint brush
to touch
his luscious buttery pancake brown brush tenders his soul’s tipping point!
He moved his brush as he always did, every stroke laying another gesture into his piece. His life bled onto the canvas with each wayward swipe, his emotions with each scratch, and his failures with each erasure.
At first, Charlotte wanted to be a painter. Then, she wanted to be an actress. Then later, a dancer. Until finally, she had a Eureka moment.
“When I grow up,” she proudly declared to her skeptical parents, “I’m going to be the first dancer to paint something onstage while also performing the world’s greatest monologues!”
He moved his brush, every stroke laying another modicum of emotion and feeling into his piece. His life bled onto the canvas with each wayward little flick, his emotions with each scratch, and his failures with each erasure.
I wish I was a painter
to see my visions sketched out on paper
to spatter my thoughts on canvas
plain as day or skewed with tint
oil and watercolor
whatever hue seems appropriate
for the moment, moments that last
when put on paper
from mind to matter
they matter
With broad strokes he covered the wall. Then stepping back and cupping his chin between his index finger and thumb, he began to listen, to wait – wait for the wall to speak to him and breath life into the details that would soon come.
Blue? Indigo? the painter squinted, the colors blurring in front of his eyes. Looking at the palette of the sunset reflected in the slow, rippling movement of the Seine.
There is this huge blank window at the town cafe that normally just looks out at the street but today there was a woman outside with a few paint buckets a ladder and some paint brushes. She began to paint a picture
the painter reached for her brush as she saw the image pop into her head. A fox it was as simple as that she was going to paint the best fox ever. She had always wanted to be the best painter ever she tried her best at every painting she did.
Grandma Mabel was a painter. I didn’t know she possessed this talent until she was dead. I found her paintings in a back bedroom. A vase of flowers. A bowl of fruit. Her husband in a boat on the river, bringing up a net of fish. This woman, this Mabel Elizabeth–my husband’s grandmother–was so much more than good fashion, good food, good manners. She was more than classy. More than domesticity. She was art. She was a creator. Maybe she even painted outside of the lines. This is the side of her I wish I knew.
There he was, perched on a rickety stand, long, weathered (but well kept) brush in hand. He was a swollen-looking man, like he was constantly a little bit buzzed.
A painter, I’m picturing someone on a ladder in a quaint little town in Germany not painting but removing paint. The Book Thief!! I imagine beautiful yellows and greens being painted onto a fence
She lifted her brush and paused, glancing around the room. What to paint? What to paint… Her eyes darted across a fruit bowl and her stomach lurched at the cliche. Ugh. No. She looked towards the window. Skyline? But all she could see was the alley behind the house. She looked up.
Painter, ha this word is very relevant to me right now. Ben Coppel uses a painter and paint brush anology all of the time. He refers to Salesforce as the paint and myself as the painter and I sometimes refer to him as the paint brush. It is actually a pretty good analogy but not every time a software system doesnt work exactly as he has planned he says it is the painter’s fault!
an artist is someone who is caught between the fear of expression and the need for it. today i saw a man on the side of the road with a sign saying that he’s a painter out of work, and it made me think about the difference between artists and painters and how everyones just trying to make it through the day.
He was a painter. She was a writer. Can I make it any more obvious? I was owned an expensive Avril Lavigne painting then I hit my early teens and was embarrassed of it and gave it away- now I wish I had it back.
A painter is the closest thing to an artistical philosopher if he chooses to be. But he could also paint useless blobs that can be referred to as modern art. There are way to many errors.
She must have been in those woods for years and years by now. Maybe a decade, even. We hadn’t seen her for a while, but the first sighting was about 1990, and we’d seen the footprints. And the paintings, of course. She hadn’t stopped scrawling her beautiful designs of mud and dirt and twigs across the face of the trees.
The last one had been of me, with a label and all. I don’t know how she learned my name.
I was a painter back in the day it was exciting and jubilant
Painters paint its what they do. No painter no house’s with life.
Simple as that, simple as this hell, simple as everything thas simple.
Doll thinks it’s a stupid hobby. It’s girly, and impractical, and messy.
But Luca steps into her room and makes a beeline for the easel, admiring the painting with the sort of wide-eyed emotion she’d always secretly wished she’d inspire.
“I didn’t know you were a painter,” he says, turning to her.
She shrugs, but between her ribs her heart beatsbeatsbeats and she thinks,
Painters, they are artists with a brush and canvas. Different painter work in different ways. Some see images in their minds and recreate them on paper, others just start without knowing what they are going to create.
i am a painter. I deep inside feel that I want to marry a painter who can paint me in to pootrait and I can feel so loved. I am obsessed with a painter these days
i wish to become a thorough professional in the world of painintng if I wasnt thrown into the world of papers and study I would have devoted my life to painting.
i am a painter. I deep inside feel that I want to marry a painter who can paint me in to pootrait and I can feel so loved. I am obsessed with a painter these days
painter is a person who paints church’s/houses/work places, etc. & they get money from it and can pro. be rich from it and they paint a lot of cool different places.
Heute ist A. eine Painterin. Sie streicht ihre Wand weiß. Kinderzeichnungen. Tusche. Mit einer Freundin. Vor vielen Jahren. So lange haben wir jetzt gebraucht, dabei war es doch ganz leicht, das Kreppband zu kaufen, die Malerfolie und die Farbe aus dem Keller zu holen und das Wandstreichen anzugehen.
the painter perched up on a balcony edge; large and in charge; a useless world beneath him, he strokes towards hindsight colors and hues of a mystic valley, a place now not unknown.
the painter visualizes his eutopia frame in fantasty
leaves a hold of reality
becomes one with the paint brush
to touch
his luscious buttery pancake brown brush tenders his soul’s tipping point!
He moved his brush as he always did, every stroke laying another gesture into his piece. His life bled onto the canvas with each wayward swipe, his emotions with each scratch, and his failures with each erasure.
At first, Charlotte wanted to be a painter. Then, she wanted to be an actress. Then later, a dancer. Until finally, she had a Eureka moment.
“When I grow up,” she proudly declared to her skeptical parents, “I’m going to be the first dancer to paint something onstage while also performing the world’s greatest monologues!”
Well, at least her shows went viral on Youtube.
He moved his brush, every stroke laying another modicum of emotion and feeling into his piece. His life bled onto the canvas with each wayward little flick, his emotions with each scratch, and his failures with each erasure.
I wish I was a painter
to see my visions sketched out on paper
to spatter my thoughts on canvas
plain as day or skewed with tint
oil and watercolor
whatever hue seems appropriate
for the moment, moments that last
when put on paper
from mind to matter
they matter
My brother painter Bob painted me red and blue.
I am a painter an i like red paint.Also my dad is a painter. We live in our old house and it was green.
He was a painter, a painter of lies. He painted masterpieces of lies with a flourish.Every item in his painting was concocted.
my friend is a painter She has painted a lot. She has painted a meadow, she has painted a car
With broad strokes he covered the wall. Then stepping back and cupping his chin between his index finger and thumb, he began to listen, to wait – wait for the wall to speak to him and breath life into the details that would soon come.
Blue? Indigo? the painter squinted, the colors blurring in front of his eyes. Looking at the palette of the sunset reflected in the slow, rippling movement of the Seine.
There is this huge blank window at the town cafe that normally just looks out at the street but today there was a woman outside with a few paint buckets a ladder and some paint brushes. She began to paint a picture
Being a painter would be extremely hard. It would take a lot of penitence. You have to wait a long time to even get famous for being a painter.
the painter reached for her brush as she saw the image pop into her head. A fox it was as simple as that she was going to paint the best fox ever. She had always wanted to be the best painter ever she tried her best at every painting she did.
Grandma Mabel was a painter. I didn’t know she possessed this talent until she was dead. I found her paintings in a back bedroom. A vase of flowers. A bowl of fruit. Her husband in a boat on the river, bringing up a net of fish. This woman, this Mabel Elizabeth–my husband’s grandmother–was so much more than good fashion, good food, good manners. She was more than classy. More than domesticity. She was art. She was a creator. Maybe she even painted outside of the lines. This is the side of her I wish I knew.
The paint splashed onto the house.The painter brushed slowly and gracefully.
kind’ve like an aritist. skilled and patient. sometimes hard working. does lots of jobs.
a person who paint
There he was, perched on a rickety stand, long, weathered (but well kept) brush in hand. He was a swollen-looking man, like he was constantly a little bit buzzed.
A painter, I’m picturing someone on a ladder in a quaint little town in Germany not painting but removing paint. The Book Thief!! I imagine beautiful yellows and greens being painted onto a fence
She lifted her brush and paused, glancing around the room. What to paint? What to paint… Her eyes darted across a fruit bowl and her stomach lurched at the cliche. Ugh. No. She looked towards the window. Skyline? But all she could see was the alley behind the house. She looked up.
I need a painter to my office, is it very bad!!
By the way, my father was painter when he was young.
Painter, ha this word is very relevant to me right now. Ben Coppel uses a painter and paint brush anology all of the time. He refers to Salesforce as the paint and myself as the painter and I sometimes refer to him as the paint brush. It is actually a pretty good analogy but not every time a software system doesnt work exactly as he has planned he says it is the painter’s fault!
an artist is someone who is caught between the fear of expression and the need for it. today i saw a man on the side of the road with a sign saying that he’s a painter out of work, and it made me think about the difference between artists and painters and how everyones just trying to make it through the day.
He was a painter. She was a writer. Can I make it any more obvious? I was owned an expensive Avril Lavigne painting then I hit my early teens and was embarrassed of it and gave it away- now I wish I had it back.
artist, wears a beret, is french
painting with a typical colour palette, red scarf, blue and white stripy shirt
is on the french streets, in badly drawn cartoon colour
is painting france but not the scene he’s in, a greyer, more ominous france
there is a cat curled under the table looking at him
he has a mustache, black hair
there is red paint on his red handled brush
he is in front of a boulangerie and there is a waitress serving wine to two french women behind him.
A painter is the closest thing to an artistical philosopher if he chooses to be. But he could also paint useless blobs that can be referred to as modern art. There are way to many errors.
She must have been in those woods for years and years by now. Maybe a decade, even. We hadn’t seen her for a while, but the first sighting was about 1990, and we’d seen the footprints. And the paintings, of course. She hadn’t stopped scrawling her beautiful designs of mud and dirt and twigs across the face of the trees.
The last one had been of me, with a label and all. I don’t know how she learned my name.
When I opened the door to get into my apartment, there was a painter in my room.
He didn’t seem to notice me but was focusing on painting the wall. However, he was painting one side of the wall the whole time, over and over again.
I was wondering what he was doing. It was a young lady observing a man painting one side of the wall.
colour
Artist
brush
Van Gogh was a famous painter. He was very talented indeed. His “Sunflowers” are magnificent.
I was a painter back in the day it was exciting and jubilant
Painters paint its what they do. No painter no house’s with life.
Simple as that, simple as this hell, simple as everything thas simple.
Paint the sky like you paint with moonlight. Big and bold, strong and intelligent. Sophisticated, poignant. Bright, leading. inspiring.
Doll thinks it’s a stupid hobby. It’s girly, and impractical, and messy.
But Luca steps into her room and makes a beeline for the easel, admiring the painting with the sort of wide-eyed emotion she’d always secretly wished she’d inspire.
“I didn’t know you were a painter,” he says, turning to her.
She shrugs, but between her ribs her heart beatsbeatsbeats and she thinks,
i’m going to keep you