blank page, It can be filled with every image in your head, every beautiful image. This is what makes the world complete. Creates motivations and ideas that lead to new things that make the world better and more creative than ever before. Creates new life, and a better world.
Canvases are pretty cool. They are a blank slate. A new beginning. The start of a work in progress, a passion. Something to pour out your imagination onto. Something to splash color onto. A brand new start.
Tabula rasa.
I would love to be able to be a truly blank canvas – that you could give me a random word and I would come up with something truly original would be an amazing talent/achievement!
This makes me think of children as well… you have to be so careful with them not to enforce your own preconceptions about life into the way that they view things. They never interpret things with the context that they should.
The artist sat in front of the window, at a loss as to how he should proceed. He turned to look at his blank canvas and then at the naked man at the back of the room. The muscular body, toned to perfection. How could he paint him when he knew what this man had done? How many people he had murdered…
The canvas sat there, gleaming white, taunting me. I’d taken the stupid art class to please my mother – she was sitting beside me, dashing away with the paintbrush like it was the only thing preventing the second Coming of Jesus or something. My classmates, too, were daubing at theirs. Mine, however, sat there, waiting patiently for my muse to show up.
martha stared at her canvas. she had nothing. nothing to paint, to draw, to splatter. her mind was blank. it had been empty for hours, days, weeks. something was wrong with her.
Art. art is a beautiful thing and the way the canvas just stands holding your necessities. Beautiful paint and unique colors to express your words into art and creation. It holds your life.
She looked at the blank canvas, her mind just as empty. It seemed like everytime she decided she was going to be creative, she would get a block. A writer’s block, and painter’s block, a musician’s block. She couldn’t excape. Maybe she just thinks too much.
He stares at it, a second longer the last, a second more to hesitate. It’s a little scary to him, the immensity of this blank canvas in front of him, the possibilities, the mistakes all made real. He’s wounded and splintered, and though the mirror shows him young, he is anything but.
Tired with thought he raises his hand and darkens that perfect white canvas.
The days seem to long to him now.
He drops his hand to judge that one red line.
He’s lost yet he’ll be damned if he got himself found.
The red line is smudged and distorted.
If they can’t see who or what he really is, he’ll shows them with this canvas.
My heart is a canvas, and you’ve gone and written all over it. You’ve engraved your story in permanent ink, and sometimes the words and sentences and paragraphs and stories are not perfect. Some people might call it messy or wrong, but I call it beautiful.
Is like a blank slate, it is the beginning of a new creation. Bad, good, glorious we all start with a blank canvas. It is our choice of where to go from there. On your mark get set go!
He entered the small cabin that had been made into a makeshift studio. It still smelled of chemicals, paint thinner and dust. The floor was covered in splatters of so many colors that from a distance the floor seemed to be strewn with confetti.
He walked up to a lonely canvas in the middle of the room and peered into it. He could see it was a landscape of a bay and some trees, however it had not been finished.
“My father’s last painting and he could not finish it.”
Suddenly, he felt that the feelings he’d been carrying had become too much of a burden to bear. He let his body drop on the old couch behind him and sat there crying for a long time.
The painter looked up at his blank canvas and then down at his brush. He looked to the left and to the right, but could not find his inspiration. He glanced around the room and found the photograph on his mantle from many years ago. He then knew what he would be painting, he grabbed the brush and reached for the paint. He had finally found his inspiration.
The great canvas, one thing that most artists once have, and are still, afraid of. Nothing less, but the empty canvas, that has the thing, true emptyness until the painter opens his eyes. Cnavas has it all there, every canvas is ready to be exposed.
paint it! what every you see in your heart or mind. let the colors talk to you and whisper what they are. paint a song or a poem. discover what the canvas is meant to hold.
The canvas blank, and as you whisper a word, a swipe of paint appears. And as he kisses your hand, a drip of red, it falls. Once you both have felt the feelings, full and true, the canvas then, is halfway painted, and the rest of your lives paints the rest.
A blank canvas, waiting to be filled, with strokes of a brush, daubs of paint, anything you can imagine.
You only need to know what you want to see on there, then it’s a case of getting it down!
I write on canvas but it’s much more than this. My art is painted with my mind and I never stop painting til I see what is truly beautiful inside of me. I’t not hard to find the words; it’sl simply hard to put it out.
something to draw on. painting a picture. creativity. anything is possible. blah blah blah. i cant think of anything else to write. is it blank? so if it’s blank then you could do anything you wanted with it. like painting or writing or anythig..you could like put stickers on it or something.
a black vessel. a mass waiting to be filled with your vision. when left blank it carried every vision, when unfinished it is limitless. but when complete- it’s art.
i saw a man putting a canvas on top of his head, shielding himself and his family from rain. I thought i could see everything from up here but no, the imaginary canvas that i put on on me cover my true sight and stop me from being equal
On the wall there is a white canvas.
Staring at this canvas, I feel sadness.
It could be something, yet isn’t. Like me.
Staring at this canvas, I feel lonely.
Left alone to whither in the dark. Like me.
Staring at this canvas, I feel comradeship.
It is blank, colorless, empty. Like me.
Staring at this canvas, I feel envy.
While it is alone, at least it is still white and pure.
Untouched and unbroken by the world.
Unlike me.
Staring at this canvas, I cry.
blank….a space an unstarted painting….a tent….also a space, also a painting, the light the dark, the flittering insects…..the shapes of outside moving across the taut fabric..
The light filtered in through lace curtains and splashed a warm glow over her face. She woke with a stretch and a yawn and went straight to the canvas. It was all she had seen, aside from dreams, for six days. Here it was, the most legendary painting in the world, and she had hidden it away in her loft and called it love.
my canvas is blank, unsaturated white. it provides the base for my thoughts, the home for my imagination. keeper of dreams, holder of beauty. my canvas is blank, but not for long.
brushes, paint, pallets, artwork, creative, colourful, beautiful, a dab of peace in an otherwise chaotic world.
His body was her canvas as she traced her fingertips over him, exploring his features and muscles before she began to sculpt.
blank page, It can be filled with every image in your head, every beautiful image. This is what makes the world complete. Creates motivations and ideas that lead to new things that make the world better and more creative than ever before. Creates new life, and a better world.
Canvases are pretty cool. They are a blank slate. A new beginning. The start of a work in progress, a passion. Something to pour out your imagination onto. Something to splash color onto. A brand new start.
Tabula rasa.
I would love to be able to be a truly blank canvas – that you could give me a random word and I would come up with something truly original would be an amazing talent/achievement!
This makes me think of children as well… you have to be so careful with them not to enforce your own preconceptions about life into the way that they view things. They never interpret things with the context that they should.
The artist sat in front of the window, at a loss as to how he should proceed. He turned to look at his blank canvas and then at the naked man at the back of the room. The muscular body, toned to perfection. How could he paint him when he knew what this man had done? How many people he had murdered…
The canvas sat there, gleaming white, taunting me. I’d taken the stupid art class to please my mother – she was sitting beside me, dashing away with the paintbrush like it was the only thing preventing the second Coming of Jesus or something. My classmates, too, were daubing at theirs. Mine, however, sat there, waiting patiently for my muse to show up.
martha stared at her canvas. she had nothing. nothing to paint, to draw, to splatter. her mind was blank. it had been empty for hours, days, weeks. something was wrong with her.
Art. art is a beautiful thing and the way the canvas just stands holding your necessities. Beautiful paint and unique colors to express your words into art and creation. It holds your life.
She looked at the blank canvas, her mind just as empty. It seemed like everytime she decided she was going to be creative, she would get a block. A writer’s block, and painter’s block, a musician’s block. She couldn’t excape. Maybe she just thinks too much.
paintings, art…. creativity. blank, endless possibilities. tents.
He stares at it, a second longer the last, a second more to hesitate. It’s a little scary to him, the immensity of this blank canvas in front of him, the possibilities, the mistakes all made real. He’s wounded and splintered, and though the mirror shows him young, he is anything but.
Tired with thought he raises his hand and darkens that perfect white canvas.
The days seem to long to him now.
He drops his hand to judge that one red line.
He’s lost yet he’ll be damned if he got himself found.
The red line is smudged and distorted.
If they can’t see who or what he really is, he’ll shows them with this canvas.
My heart is a canvas, and you’ve gone and written all over it. You’ve engraved your story in permanent ink, and sometimes the words and sentences and paragraphs and stories are not perfect. Some people might call it messy or wrong, but I call it beautiful.
Grrr canvas was yesterdays weird. huh now i have to wait……….getting purpler……….2 more gray things……………………..gasp DONE! Be back later!
The canvas might be small for the picture I’ll be painting, but it’s big enough to show how much I love him.
Is like a blank slate, it is the beginning of a new creation. Bad, good, glorious we all start with a blank canvas. It is our choice of where to go from there. On your mark get set go!
He entered the small cabin that had been made into a makeshift studio. It still smelled of chemicals, paint thinner and dust. The floor was covered in splatters of so many colors that from a distance the floor seemed to be strewn with confetti.
He walked up to a lonely canvas in the middle of the room and peered into it. He could see it was a landscape of a bay and some trees, however it had not been finished.
“My father’s last painting and he could not finish it.”
Suddenly, he felt that the feelings he’d been carrying had become too much of a burden to bear. He let his body drop on the old couch behind him and sat there crying for a long time.
The painter looked up at his blank canvas and then down at his brush. He looked to the left and to the right, but could not find his inspiration. He glanced around the room and found the photograph on his mantle from many years ago. He then knew what he would be painting, he grabbed the brush and reached for the paint. He had finally found his inspiration.
The great canvas, one thing that most artists once have, and are still, afraid of. Nothing less, but the empty canvas, that has the thing, true emptyness until the painter opens his eyes. Cnavas has it all there, every canvas is ready to be exposed.
paint it! what every you see in your heart or mind. let the colors talk to you and whisper what they are. paint a song or a poem. discover what the canvas is meant to hold.
The canvas blank, and as you whisper a word, a swipe of paint appears. And as he kisses your hand, a drip of red, it falls. Once you both have felt the feelings, full and true, the canvas then, is halfway painted, and the rest of your lives paints the rest.
A blank canvas, waiting to be filled, with strokes of a brush, daubs of paint, anything you can imagine.
You only need to know what you want to see on there, then it’s a case of getting it down!
huge blue soft awesome hide rain star mountain comfy
I write on canvas but it’s much more than this. My art is painted with my mind and I never stop painting til I see what is truly beautiful inside of me. I’t not hard to find the words; it’sl simply hard to put it out.
something to draw on. painting a picture. creativity. anything is possible. blah blah blah. i cant think of anything else to write. is it blank? so if it’s blank then you could do anything you wanted with it. like painting or writing or anythig..you could like put stickers on it or something.
a blank canvas is is still art right? I mean there’s nothing on it, but it’s the though that counts :P.
a black vessel. a mass waiting to be filled with your vision. when left blank it carried every vision, when unfinished it is limitless. but when complete- it’s art.
i saw a man putting a canvas on top of his head, shielding himself and his family from rain. I thought i could see everything from up here but no, the imaginary canvas that i put on on me cover my true sight and stop me from being equal
On the wall there is a white canvas.
Staring at this canvas, I feel sadness.
It could be something, yet isn’t. Like me.
Staring at this canvas, I feel lonely.
Left alone to whither in the dark. Like me.
Staring at this canvas, I feel comradeship.
It is blank, colorless, empty. Like me.
Staring at this canvas, I feel envy.
While it is alone, at least it is still white and pure.
Untouched and unbroken by the world.
Unlike me.
Staring at this canvas, I cry.
,k
blank….a space an unstarted painting….a tent….also a space, also a painting, the light the dark, the flittering insects…..the shapes of outside moving across the taut fabric..
Canvas….i like em’ they are really exciting and wonderful :) u can paint on em too:)
they are beautiful and……………CANVASY:D :)
by me :)
my life was a blank canvas. pure as the driven snow.
and from the moment i took my first breath, the world began to paint on me.
eighteen years later, i am full of colors an textures and shadows and light.
i am not a masterpiece yet, but i am a work of art.
Canvas….i like em’ they are really exciting and wonderful :) u can paint on em too:)
by me :)
The light filtered in through lace curtains and splashed a warm glow over her face. She woke with a stretch and a yawn and went straight to the canvas. It was all she had seen, aside from dreams, for six days. Here it was, the most legendary painting in the world, and she had hidden it away in her loft and called it love.
my life was a black canvas. pure as the driven snow. and from the moment i took my first breath, the world began to paint on me.
eighteen years later, i am full of colors an textures and shadows and light. i am not a masterpiece yet, but i am a work of art.
my canvas is blank, unsaturated white. it provides the base for my thoughts, the home for my imagination. keeper of dreams, holder of beauty. my canvas is blank, but not for long.
the paint the pain weve seen the same oh what a shame its all on canvas.
A canvas is a painting that pictures a landscape with different colors and brush strokes.
The canvas a deep coral and my mind was in the sea. Drowning in the greens, yellows and the deepest shades of blue. Dripping with love, I fell.