There is a page inside me. Ever drawn on and ever clean. One moment flickers, recording itself as Monet once did with vibrant oils and colors. And the next moment shifts into the place of the previous, creating itself upon the layers of the old, now years thick. Covered, much like the fabled Battle of Anghiari, these layers live with clues to the old underneath it, giving way to memory and hidden emotions. Hidden from myself. Hidden from the world. Each stroke of my mind’s eye across the surface leaves the paint just where it needs be. And so with the fervor of intuition, this moment is finished. Another failing masterpiece.
A THING WHERE YOU DRAW PICTURES AND GET TO DESPLAY YOUR CREATIVE JUICES FOR ALL TO SEE! OR JUST FOR YOURSELF IF YOU WANT THAT. A PLACE WHERE ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE AND THE WORLD IS READY FOR YOU TO CREATE! A FREEING PLACE. JUST WAITING TO BE EXPLORED…
I looked at the empty canvas, it was taunting me. It was white, pure – so proud of itself… But it was also empty, void of content. Taunting. I hated that canvas…
The canvas hung on the wall like some demented dream, its scene depicting what he wanted to forget most. Had it really been 7 years? More like 7 seconds. The pain hit him as deeply now as it always had, his blunt wound chronically aching him away, away. He imagined closing it as one does a book after finishing it, forever sealing it off from his life.
“Danny,” A voice whispered from the adjacent room,
beautiful paintings illuminating blank space that is pure and viginal and perfectly ripe for the world to impose itself upon it. Rough fabric waiting to be tamed by acceptable art or by punk instincts.
blank stretch, starting fresh. The beginning process, clear of expression. what is it you wish to convey? The world is yours, quivering beneath your fingertips.
a lovely place to express yourself and love everything and live your life however youw ant no judgments just writing and drawing and life and siokhdfgkjsxvbcxmbmxnhdf a white space kinda empty till you put whatever the fuck you want on it
Unable to keep anything in her life plain, she took the canvas of the tent for its artistic purpose. Staring upwards, the two gazed at the sky: not the natural light of the stars from above, but her elaborately painted conception of them, shining down in quite a different way.
He laid down on her floor, his hands clasped over his stomach, eyes expectant.
She raised an eyebrow. When they made eye contact, he winked at her, then looked pointedly at the rows of acrylic paint on the top shelf.
I canvas the neighborhood with the gruesome crime scene still fresh in mind, keeping an eye out for everyone and anyone. I thought I knew the people in this town but now I know a killer is among us…
My life is a canvas, marked in paint by the people who shape me. Unaware artists, not knowing that it is they who shape what I am. They splash colors over me, blotches and squiggles that would make sense to no one but those who took a step back and were willing to take in all of me. I will not make sense to most but I will also be more valuable to those who step back and grasp me then Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.
a large blue canvas floating in the dreamy midnight sky and next to you your bet friend along wiht you for the adventure of a life time exploring the unknow and have an amazing time with laughter and sadness all you ave todo is paint your own canvas
The canvas stands before me blank. How will I paint it? What colors will I put on it? I dip my brush. I let it guide me. At this point I know that I will be creative in the world that is before me as my life is.
With her mind nearly about to open wide, she took a moment to focus. What did she want to bring to the blank canvas in front of her? Curiosity. Friendliness. Alright – Begin!
The canvas hung on the wall like some demented dream, its scene depicting what he wanted to forget most. Had it really been 7 years? More like 7 seconds. The pain hit him as deeply now as it always had, his blunt wound chronically aching him away, away. He imagined closing it as one does a book after finishing it, forever sealing it off from his life.
the blank canvas loomed before me. i approached it with trembling fingertips. my toes got there first, quivering in the wake of its enormity. the light bounced off its face and into mine, blinding me with the space before me. such expanse! how would i ever begin?
When ever I think of a canvas, I see white. Nothing. Naked. Emptiness. Alone.
You and that canvas. It is your duty to make it something magical. Your job,
pick something up, and let the magic begin.
my life is like a blank canvas and i intend to fill it with the brightest of colors throughout my life. i feel like everything that i accomplish with burst with many colors and i will shine brighter then ever. Life is bright and full of surprises.
Art. Beauty. These are the things that are spilled out to a canvas for the world to see, but what the artist sees is always different. An artist sees love, hate, fear and regrets all over the canvas. They feel every stroke of paint across the canvas.
“White. A blank page or canvas… So many possibilities.”
If I became an artist, it’d be such a mess. Large canvases all over the place… The problem with creating art is figuring out where to store it. What to do with it when it’s done. I couldn’t just paint over it. I created it! I’d want to save everything.
She raised a fist, clenched so hard that the knuckles had turned even whiter than her cream-colored skin, and punched it through the canvas. The damage left behind was satisfyingly painful for her, and the hole, satisfyingly un-fixable.
The canvas laid on the bed. The artist was staring at it, wondering what he could paint on it. He began throwing paint on it but immediately scratched it out. He threw paint on it once more and again, scratched it out. He had done this several times before there were many colors and many scratches. Finally, he was pleased with his work.
Imagine your givin one blank canvas to put down all your thoughts…what would you write. Your dreams and secrets or the words to your favorite song? I’d place my hand in my favorite colour paint and plop it on the canvas. That way it couldn’t possibly be alike to anyone elses
His mind was like a canvas, blank and ready for my hands. All it would take would be the right stroke of my mental brushes, and the poor bastard would be under my control. His powers would add phenomenal strength to the mission ahead.
… a blank canvas on which to create a world with color, or with words. The artist paints with the tools he has, rendering reality in a new light. Perspective is subjective, ever-changing, but true.
The canvas stared back at me, seeming to taunt me with the fact that it was still blank. T couldn’t think of anything to paint, which surprised me. Normally i was an astounding artist (or at least that’s what my friends told me) but it was like today i’d lost my edge.
a canvas is a blank page which will soon be filled with anyone’s-artistic or not-ideas. They flow onto the page like the words flow out of my mind and onto this page. Canvas’ are everywhere you look- on brick walls, in schools, studios- and you can be inspired.
Blank writing blank blank blank goes the cursor in front blank blank blank who was it wrote that we’re all a blank slate, sort of neutral beings who can become anything? Rousseau? In any case, It seems to be a beautiful way beginning a life like a canvas that hasn’t been painted on yet.
There’s an empty canvas lying on the floor waiting to be filled with colours of life colours in our minds and colours of our hearts. An empty canvas reflecting a life unfulfilled a life stopped before its purpose unfolded a life that needs meaning.
i get reedy to take the canvas and paint the picture of my dreams. its going to be big and tall. i got this canvas for my birthday. it also came with pencils and paints. the picture was going to be beautiful.
With canvas my ideas, my emotions, my blood, sweat and tears can be splattered on there without any worry about how messy it will end up or where it is placed. Canvas is like a universe waiting to be explored.
I saw it hung on the wall. I tried to comprehend what was depicted through its colors, but couldn’t. What was this canvas trying to tell me? I retreated backwards and finally saw the big picture. One big eye. Allah.
needs to have something
done to it
so it can become
beautiful
Blank
waiting to be filled
potential
unlike snow
which is better left untouched
Art is created through canvas much like life is created through thought. Our mind our canvas, our life our art.
I see a canvas, I want to paint. Drag a rugged brush over the thick board. Watch the colors unravel like words on a page. Oh what a sight to see.
There is a page inside me. Ever drawn on and ever clean. One moment flickers, recording itself as Monet once did with vibrant oils and colors. And the next moment shifts into the place of the previous, creating itself upon the layers of the old, now years thick. Covered, much like the fabled Battle of Anghiari, these layers live with clues to the old underneath it, giving way to memory and hidden emotions. Hidden from myself. Hidden from the world. Each stroke of my mind’s eye across the surface leaves the paint just where it needs be. And so with the fervor of intuition, this moment is finished. Another failing masterpiece.
A THING WHERE YOU DRAW PICTURES AND GET TO DESPLAY YOUR CREATIVE JUICES FOR ALL TO SEE! OR JUST FOR YOURSELF IF YOU WANT THAT. A PLACE WHERE ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE AND THE WORLD IS READY FOR YOU TO CREATE! A FREEING PLACE. JUST WAITING TO BE EXPLORED…
I looked at the empty canvas, it was taunting me. It was white, pure – so proud of itself… But it was also empty, void of content. Taunting. I hated that canvas…
The canvas hung on the wall like some demented dream, its scene depicting what he wanted to forget most. Had it really been 7 years? More like 7 seconds. The pain hit him as deeply now as it always had, his blunt wound chronically aching him away, away. He imagined closing it as one does a book after finishing it, forever sealing it off from his life.
“Danny,” A voice whispered from the adjacent room,
beautiful paintings illuminating blank space that is pure and viginal and perfectly ripe for the world to impose itself upon it. Rough fabric waiting to be tamed by acceptable art or by punk instincts.
blank stretch, starting fresh. The beginning process, clear of expression. what is it you wish to convey? The world is yours, quivering beneath your fingertips.
a lovely place to express yourself and love everything and live your life however youw ant no judgments just writing and drawing and life and siokhdfgkjsxvbcxmbmxnhdf a white space kinda empty till you put whatever the fuck you want on it
Unable to keep anything in her life plain, she took the canvas of the tent for its artistic purpose. Staring upwards, the two gazed at the sky: not the natural light of the stars from above, but her elaborately painted conception of them, shining down in quite a different way.
He laid down on her floor, his hands clasped over his stomach, eyes expectant.
She raised an eyebrow. When they made eye contact, he winked at her, then looked pointedly at the rows of acrylic paint on the top shelf.
“Might as well make the most of university, eh?”
I canvas the neighborhood with the gruesome crime scene still fresh in mind, keeping an eye out for everyone and anyone. I thought I knew the people in this town but now I know a killer is among us…
My life is a canvas, marked in paint by the people who shape me. Unaware artists, not knowing that it is they who shape what I am. They splash colors over me, blotches and squiggles that would make sense to no one but those who took a step back and were willing to take in all of me. I will not make sense to most but I will also be more valuable to those who step back and grasp me then Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.
a large blue canvas floating in the dreamy midnight sky and next to you your bet friend along wiht you for the adventure of a life time exploring the unknow and have an amazing time with laughter and sadness all you ave todo is paint your own canvas
the pallette of pleasing pleasure. Blank in its beauty, begging for a companion to play with. Asking so quietly you may think its your own idea.
The canvas stands before me blank. How will I paint it? What colors will I put on it? I dip my brush. I let it guide me. At this point I know that I will be creative in the world that is before me as my life is.
With her mind nearly about to open wide, she took a moment to focus. What did she want to bring to the blank canvas in front of her? Curiosity. Friendliness. Alright – Begin!
The canvas hung on the wall like some demented dream, its scene depicting what he wanted to forget most. Had it really been 7 years? More like 7 seconds. The pain hit him as deeply now as it always had, his blunt wound chronically aching him away, away. He imagined closing it as one does a book after finishing it, forever sealing it off from his life.
the blank canvas loomed before me. i approached it with trembling fingertips. my toes got there first, quivering in the wake of its enormity. the light bounced off its face and into mine, blinding me with the space before me. such expanse! how would i ever begin?
When ever I think of a canvas, I see white. Nothing. Naked. Emptiness. Alone.
You and that canvas. It is your duty to make it something magical. Your job,
pick something up, and let the magic begin.
my life is like a blank canvas and i intend to fill it with the brightest of colors throughout my life. i feel like everything that i accomplish with burst with many colors and i will shine brighter then ever. Life is bright and full of surprises.
Art. Beauty. These are the things that are spilled out to a canvas for the world to see, but what the artist sees is always different. An artist sees love, hate, fear and regrets all over the canvas. They feel every stroke of paint across the canvas.
Canvas
“White. A blank page or canvas… So many possibilities.”
If I became an artist, it’d be such a mess. Large canvases all over the place… The problem with creating art is figuring out where to store it. What to do with it when it’s done. I couldn’t just paint over it. I created it! I’d want to save everything.
She raised a fist, clenched so hard that the knuckles had turned even whiter than her cream-colored skin, and punched it through the canvas. The damage left behind was satisfyingly painful for her, and the hole, satisfyingly un-fixable.
The canvas laid on the bed. The artist was staring at it, wondering what he could paint on it. He began throwing paint on it but immediately scratched it out. He threw paint on it once more and again, scratched it out. He had done this several times before there were many colors and many scratches. Finally, he was pleased with his work.
Imagine your givin one blank canvas to put down all your thoughts…what would you write. Your dreams and secrets or the words to your favorite song? I’d place my hand in my favorite colour paint and plop it on the canvas. That way it couldn’t possibly be alike to anyone elses
Oh well that’s just not anything!
what?
It’s a blank canvas!
So?
that’s not art! and don’t start up with that bullshit about ‘it’s whatever you want it to be.
why not?
Because it’s pretentious, lazy-art-bullshit!
What do you see?
Sigh. A fortune.
His mind was like a canvas, blank and ready for my hands. All it would take would be the right stroke of my mental brushes, and the poor bastard would be under my control. His powers would add phenomenal strength to the mission ahead.
… a blank canvas on which to create a world with color, or with words. The artist paints with the tools he has, rendering reality in a new light. Perspective is subjective, ever-changing, but true.
The canvas stared back at me, seeming to taunt me with the fact that it was still blank. T couldn’t think of anything to paint, which surprised me. Normally i was an astounding artist (or at least that’s what my friends told me) but it was like today i’d lost my edge.
a canvas is a blank page which will soon be filled with anyone’s-artistic or not-ideas. They flow onto the page like the words flow out of my mind and onto this page. Canvas’ are everywhere you look- on brick walls, in schools, studios- and you can be inspired.
“The canvas is empy,” said the employer, “yes but isn’t it beautiful” said the young artist as he tilts his head, “Nothing is ever REALLY empty.”
Blank writing blank blank blank goes the cursor in front blank blank blank who was it wrote that we’re all a blank slate, sort of neutral beings who can become anything? Rousseau? In any case, It seems to be a beautiful way beginning a life like a canvas that hasn’t been painted on yet.
There’s an empty canvas lying on the floor waiting to be filled with colours of life colours in our minds and colours of our hearts. An empty canvas reflecting a life unfulfilled a life stopped before its purpose unfolded a life that needs meaning.
i get reedy to take the canvas and paint the picture of my dreams. its going to be big and tall. i got this canvas for my birthday. it also came with pencils and paints. the picture was going to be beautiful.
I am not a painter, but I see my life as a canvas ~ something to be lived as if it were A PIECE OF ART IN THE MAKING.
With canvas my ideas, my emotions, my blood, sweat and tears can be splattered on there without any worry about how messy it will end up or where it is placed. Canvas is like a universe waiting to be explored.
I saw it hung on the wall. I tried to comprehend what was depicted through its colors, but couldn’t. What was this canvas trying to tell me? I retreated backwards and finally saw the big picture. One big eye. Allah.
one word for writing name or signature over the backside of a cheque