The white disappeared with every stroke. She brought the brush down hard, calling on blues and greens and purples to cover the ugly emptiness. The color. The color kept her safe.
The brush hit softly against the canvas, paint transferring from the former to the latter. Creating splotches, then shapes, then a scene. More brush strokes. And then, a masterpiece.
This page is like a canvas. Waiting for words to paint a picture in your mind. I suppose that’s what a picture is worth a thousand words is from. The words paint a picture and there ya go. You get Sally Ann Harkness the girl from the south with long wavy red hair and a penchant for dancing or you get Harold Fjord, the guy who sits in front of his computer all day playing video games. In the end what is it that paints your picture?
The canvas is blank. A space of white, waiting to be filled. It could be grand, a majestic work of art that leaves one breathless. It could be sad, full of despair that makes one cry. I could be of joy, of laughter, free of pain and worry. It could be mystifying, confusing, or incomplete. It could be your grandest dreams, or your greatest failures.
White, blank, a place for thoughts or painting. Covered with oil, maybe varnished or whatever the world is… Acrylic! Stretched over wooden frame, maybe white, possibly on an easel on a hill. Painting, artistry, tent material, strong, durable. Waterproof.
blank and empty, it stretches like a vast desert with nothing but sand and dirt in front of you. it’s almost as foreboding, too. it should be inviting, you think, should make you want to come in and enjoy, should smell like apple pie and honey and warm nights by the fire, but it’s just a wasteland. you don’t know what to do with it, and there’s no escape.
A blank canvas was all I had to work with. It was broad and white and scary. I wanted to paint something wonderful – something memorable. But I didn’t want to ruin that beautiful image in my mind of the masterpiece I could not create. The first splotch of red paint on the canvas would be a ruin of something so perfect.
I saw the blank canvas before me. My eyes filled the starch whitness with colors of my imagination as my hand grabbed for my paintbrush. For the next hour, my hands were a flurry about the blank slate while my throat hummed a melody of my love.
worth a thousand word, the endless possibilities, so many ideas come but cant determine which really can make this canvas stand out. the window to the artist is shown on this canvas it is what makes the artist. who knows how much can be expressed on this blank but soon to be master piece. nothing can describe the feelings and the emotions put into all of these wonderful pictures, not just any old pictures the ones with the map to the soul.
canvas of my tattered mind. everything i see turns me blind. if i had one wish, i’d never make it upon a star. if i had one kiss, i’d make it only for her. i spill nothing for this world. i spill nothing to a canvas full of empty pearls
When I think canvas I don’t see paint or oil or other mediums. The only mediums I see are air earth and water. I think of a vehicle, canvas topped, and taking that all over the world, letting it take me everywhere. Water? Forests? Mountains? Not an issue. And someday it’ll take me- not bring me- home.
frantic scribbling. inaudible muttering. the stray strands of hair interrupting his vision. he can’t stop. don’t stop, oh god no please don’t stop. he needs to get his nightmares on canvas. he needs them to be tangible, to be real to him. maybe they will cease plaguing him every night. he needs to get his nightmares down on canvas. it’s the only thing keeping him sane.
I would like to have a huge canvas to cover an entire wall, every month paint something huge and new and then repaint white over it. I want white walls and tons of paint, as well as a fridge full of energy drinks.
i think it’s a little ironic that this is the first word i’m getting. it’s like saying that this hole website is a canvas, for us to do whatever we please. i think i’m gonna have a lot of fun with this. a minute seems a lot shorter when you’re actually trying to write as much as you can. yet you’re still allowed to finish, even after the time is up. hmm, that should change.
i’m really a terrible painter. i always start with high aspirations and watch it all instantly turn to shit in front of me. i wish i was one of those people that could paint a masterpiece with their eyes closed. i draw lines, and finger paint.
The canvas in front of me was blank. I didn’t know who or what to paint. But then, after five minutes of just standing there thinking and countless drops of paint falling to the concrete studio floor, I knew what to paint. Her. I painted and painted for hours until she was perfect. Somehow, the painting still didn’t do her justice, even though I had caught her face perfectly, down to the slight upturn of her lip in her famous smirk.
Her life was a blank canvas…it stretched on before her just waiting to be painted. Well, that’s what everyone told her. In her eyes, her life was a canvas filled with splotches of color and shapes but no real organized form. Her baby brother’s life was a blank canvas. But hers? Her 16 year old canvas had definitely been written on. She was just trying to decide whether or not she liked the picture.
blank, free. no drama. opportunity awaits youuuu. no baggage, no past, no history, no stress. no pressure. can be whatever you want to make it. no islip.
I painted on this canvas my heart and soul. I painted on this canvas my blood and bones and I did not stop until all that was left upon the floor were my eyes and arms, because i could not finish. I cannot finish. I cannot reach now and I am not done.
i think of a painting or the girft i got my friend for her birthday… she loves art and i thought she could display her beautiful art work on it… i think a canvas represents a way of showing art to me n
Aelia painted the canvas with her feelings–the hate, the pain, the anger. She wanted to let it out forever and she never wanted to look at it again. She wanted to put her feelings on the page and then burn it. She wanted her problems to go away that easily.
As she took her match, the room began to smell of sulfur. She set her canvas alight, to never be seen again.
Thinking too much depleted the process; Thinking too less overrides the process. So tell me, is this life meant to be painted with our tribulations and constant stirring emotions? This stretched out white wall continues until I decide my mind no longer wanders. Although sometimes, I find it off the canvas, in another world.
I paint on the canvas the whole world. I paint on the canvas with colors that belong to the sun and the night sky. I paint on the canvas the moon and and the translucent mist that covers it.
A canvas is often used by artists to paint and create wonderful art. The MonaLisa was painted on the same canvas, thrice! I’ve always wanted a canvas to paint on. The idea fascinated me. A white canvas, a scenic view, pots of colorful paint and you. Ahhh! Anyway, my mom told me a canvas was too expensive and I sucked at painting anyway. Sigh. Life.
A canvas… Blank slate ready for a world to emerge from it…. The artist… The creator… Or is she merely a puppet drawing back the curtain to reveal wha is already there?
A blank white blinking space bar, taunting. Inviting and sometimes intimidating, I will wait for you to use me. I will be your canvas, love, paint me however you like. I will lay white and open for the touch of your brush when you are ready.
i’m a terrible painter. i painted a scene of rotting vegetables in the shape of a television in college and i could tell that my professor was very disappointed in me. everyone around me was painting beautiful things that played with light and color and mine just looked like a rotting mess. and it had begun to smell up the place. oops.
life is a canvas. it is blank until you make your marks on it, you can never erase the simple strokes and mistakes, but make the happy ones stick out in the brightest colors. life is what you make it. a painting of all sorts of parts of your life.
He stared, longingly, at the blank canvas. She had been his model since they met in college, almost thirty years ago. He knew the changing colors of her hair, her scattered birthmarks, her hidden scars, her better side, her best light. He knew her more intimately than any lover he had ever had.
A blank page, a new horizon. One simple white expanse, what to do with it, where to take it, where it will lead is still unknown. One moment will change its entire future, one stroke and it will never be the same again.
Across the room stood a full-length canvas with the most incredible scene drawn on it. A man of about twenty kneeling in front of a rock, in a position which looked like praying, with the ghost of a woman in the background, perhaps moving toward him.
It’s full. Really. Because everything before you has already happened. But not really. That’s not how innovators think. The canvas is not completely full. Find the tiniest spot and you will be able to fill it until you overtake it.
The canvas of her heart stretched thin over doubts and fears, marred with indecision and longing in his absence. Should he arrive, would it fix everything, or would the sweetness of the moment merely make the terror of the unknown all the more profound?
Colors spread across the canvas like word on the page, telling the story of a tree and the grass that grew beneath it. Flowers bloom and birds fly above. It is art. It is life.
The white disappeared with every stroke. She brought the brush down hard, calling on blues and greens and purples to cover the ugly emptiness. The color. The color kept her safe.
The brush hit softly against the canvas, paint transferring from the former to the latter. Creating splotches, then shapes, then a scene. More brush strokes. And then, a masterpiece.
This page is like a canvas. Waiting for words to paint a picture in your mind. I suppose that’s what a picture is worth a thousand words is from. The words paint a picture and there ya go. You get Sally Ann Harkness the girl from the south with long wavy red hair and a penchant for dancing or you get Harold Fjord, the guy who sits in front of his computer all day playing video games. In the end what is it that paints your picture?
Art, PIcasso, painting, dreams, oil, white, wax, Blank I need to fill it up, I need an idea, Imagination, have to be great, shading, brush
its used to draw, it is also used to make shoes , i can also say its a canvas to picture my imagination into.
its clean neat plain , ready to receive,
The canvas is blank. A space of white, waiting to be filled. It could be grand, a majestic work of art that leaves one breathless. It could be sad, full of despair that makes one cry. I could be of joy, of laughter, free of pain and worry. It could be mystifying, confusing, or incomplete. It could be your grandest dreams, or your greatest failures.
The canvas is blank. What will you create?
White, blank, a place for thoughts or painting. Covered with oil, maybe varnished or whatever the world is… Acrylic! Stretched over wooden frame, maybe white, possibly on an easel on a hill. Painting, artistry, tent material, strong, durable. Waterproof.
blank and empty, it stretches like a vast desert with nothing but sand and dirt in front of you. it’s almost as foreboding, too. it should be inviting, you think, should make you want to come in and enjoy, should smell like apple pie and honey and warm nights by the fire, but it’s just a wasteland. you don’t know what to do with it, and there’s no escape.
A blank canvas was all I had to work with. It was broad and white and scary. I wanted to paint something wonderful – something memorable. But I didn’t want to ruin that beautiful image in my mind of the masterpiece I could not create. The first splotch of red paint on the canvas would be a ruin of something so perfect.
I saw the blank canvas before me. My eyes filled the starch whitness with colors of my imagination as my hand grabbed for my paintbrush. For the next hour, my hands were a flurry about the blank slate while my throat hummed a melody of my love.
worth a thousand word, the endless possibilities, so many ideas come but cant determine which really can make this canvas stand out. the window to the artist is shown on this canvas it is what makes the artist. who knows how much can be expressed on this blank but soon to be master piece. nothing can describe the feelings and the emotions put into all of these wonderful pictures, not just any old pictures the ones with the map to the soul.
canvas of my tattered mind. everything i see turns me blind. if i had one wish, i’d never make it upon a star. if i had one kiss, i’d make it only for her. i spill nothing for this world. i spill nothing to a canvas full of empty pearls
When I think canvas I don’t see paint or oil or other mediums. The only mediums I see are air earth and water. I think of a vehicle, canvas topped, and taking that all over the world, letting it take me everywhere. Water? Forests? Mountains? Not an issue. And someday it’ll take me- not bring me- home.
frantic scribbling. inaudible muttering. the stray strands of hair interrupting his vision. he can’t stop. don’t stop, oh god no please don’t stop. he needs to get his nightmares on canvas. he needs them to be tangible, to be real to him. maybe they will cease plaguing him every night. he needs to get his nightmares down on canvas. it’s the only thing keeping him sane.
I would like to have a huge canvas to cover an entire wall, every month paint something huge and new and then repaint white over it. I want white walls and tons of paint, as well as a fridge full of energy drinks.
jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj
i think it’s a little ironic that this is the first word i’m getting. it’s like saying that this hole website is a canvas, for us to do whatever we please. i think i’m gonna have a lot of fun with this. a minute seems a lot shorter when you’re actually trying to write as much as you can. yet you’re still allowed to finish, even after the time is up. hmm, that should change.
i’m really a terrible painter. i always start with high aspirations and watch it all instantly turn to shit in front of me. i wish i was one of those people that could paint a masterpiece with their eyes closed. i draw lines, and finger paint.
blank, free to be whatever i want to be. clean. any medium i want, any colors, anything. no drama, no history. no pressure. no rules. FREE.
The canvas in front of me was blank. I didn’t know who or what to paint. But then, after five minutes of just standing there thinking and countless drops of paint falling to the concrete studio floor, I knew what to paint. Her. I painted and painted for hours until she was perfect. Somehow, the painting still didn’t do her justice, even though I had caught her face perfectly, down to the slight upturn of her lip in her famous smirk.
Her life was a blank canvas…it stretched on before her just waiting to be painted. Well, that’s what everyone told her. In her eyes, her life was a canvas filled with splotches of color and shapes but no real organized form. Her baby brother’s life was a blank canvas. But hers? Her 16 year old canvas had definitely been written on. She was just trying to decide whether or not she liked the picture.
blank, free. no drama. opportunity awaits youuuu. no baggage, no past, no history, no stress. no pressure. can be whatever you want to make it. no islip.
I painted on this canvas my heart and soul. I painted on this canvas my blood and bones and I did not stop until all that was left upon the floor were my eyes and arms, because i could not finish. I cannot finish. I cannot reach now and I am not done.
i think of a painting or the girft i got my friend for her birthday… she loves art and i thought she could display her beautiful art work on it… i think a canvas represents a way of showing art to me n
Aelia painted the canvas with her feelings–the hate, the pain, the anger. She wanted to let it out forever and she never wanted to look at it again. She wanted to put her feelings on the page and then burn it. She wanted her problems to go away that easily.
As she took her match, the room began to smell of sulfur. She set her canvas alight, to never be seen again.
Thinking too much depleted the process; Thinking too less overrides the process. So tell me, is this life meant to be painted with our tribulations and constant stirring emotions? This stretched out white wall continues until I decide my mind no longer wanders. Although sometimes, I find it off the canvas, in another world.
I paint on the canvas the whole world. I paint on the canvas with colors that belong to the sun and the night sky. I paint on the canvas the moon and and the translucent mist that covers it.
A canvas is often used by artists to paint and create wonderful art. The MonaLisa was painted on the same canvas, thrice! I’ve always wanted a canvas to paint on. The idea fascinated me. A white canvas, a scenic view, pots of colorful paint and you. Ahhh! Anyway, my mom told me a canvas was too expensive and I sucked at painting anyway. Sigh. Life.
A canvas… Blank slate ready for a world to emerge from it…. The artist… The creator… Or is she merely a puppet drawing back the curtain to reveal wha is already there?
A blank white blinking space bar, taunting. Inviting and sometimes intimidating, I will wait for you to use me. I will be your canvas, love, paint me however you like. I will lay white and open for the touch of your brush when you are ready.
i’m a terrible painter. i painted a scene of rotting vegetables in the shape of a television in college and i could tell that my professor was very disappointed in me. everyone around me was painting beautiful things that played with light and color and mine just looked like a rotting mess. and it had begun to smell up the place. oops.
life is a canvas. it is blank until you make your marks on it, you can never erase the simple strokes and mistakes, but make the happy ones stick out in the brightest colors. life is what you make it. a painting of all sorts of parts of your life.
canvas is something you draw on!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i think :\
He stared, longingly, at the blank canvas. She had been his model since they met in college, almost thirty years ago. He knew the changing colors of her hair, her scattered birthmarks, her hidden scars, her better side, her best light. He knew her more intimately than any lover he had ever had.
A blank page, a new horizon. One simple white expanse, what to do with it, where to take it, where it will lead is still unknown. One moment will change its entire future, one stroke and it will never be the same again.
Across the room stood a full-length canvas with the most incredible scene drawn on it. A man of about twenty kneeling in front of a rock, in a position which looked like praying, with the ghost of a woman in the background, perhaps moving toward him.
It’s full. Really. Because everything before you has already happened. But not really. That’s not how innovators think. The canvas is not completely full. Find the tiniest spot and you will be able to fill it until you overtake it.
A pornography of purple that potentially eat a dollar of delicious dallops made of spinning pancake batter. This makes everything made of space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space. Space.
The canvas of her heart stretched thin over doubts and fears, marred with indecision and longing in his absence. Should he arrive, would it fix everything, or would the sweetness of the moment merely make the terror of the unknown all the more profound?
Colors spread across the canvas like word on the page, telling the story of a tree and the grass that grew beneath it. Flowers bloom and birds fly above. It is art. It is life.