And I started with this: I have not painted at all my childhood. In fact, I never painted. But I helped my father who was a house painter and decorative painter. He made stage sets, he made glass paintings, he made everything.
quote by Josef Albers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Painter Man
Went to college, studied arts
To be an artist make a start
Studied hard, gettin my degree
But no one seemed to notice me
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Tried cartoons and comic books
Dirty postcards could have done
Here was where the money laid
Classic art has had its day
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Did adverts for t.v.
Household shops and brands of tea
Labels all around the cans
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
La...la...la...la...la...la...
La...la...la...la...la...la...la...
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
song performed by by Boney M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pray For Me
I painted somebody
I painted some more
I paited a house and I opened the door
I made her come inside
I made her feel warm
I mended her heartache
The one that she tore
Pray for me
I wrapped her in softness
Made her a fire
I gave her the one who fulfilled her desire
I laid off the doctor
Allowed her to see
She doesn't need him now
She's living with me
Pray for me
song performed by by Queen Adreena
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Let's look at people as artists and try to support them; just because Picasso painted a couple of bad paintings, that's no reason to say he's a lousy painter.
quote by Steve Guttenberg
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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My grandfather was not a musician but he was an artist - a painter, a decorative painter.
quote by Gyorgy Ligeti
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Oils Of A Painter
Catering for the painter,
His fish has colour,
Like a wonderful picture
Of food on a plate.
The paint is a drink
Of water.
It comprises of air
And gases and solids.
One made a globule of fat
In the stomach
Work for the better,
So not to be painted.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Dance Made For 2
A Dance Made For 2:
I walk over to this lady,
I've had my eyes on her for awhile now,
And asked her...
'This dance was made for 2,
So, would you be my partner?
I don't want just anyone,
But you,
And only you.'
'This dance,
Is only for 2,
Would you join me in this Tango?
For it is you who I only want tonight,
And possible forever, as well.'
'I've noticed you ever since you came through that door,
And only you,
And now,
I want to dance this dance,
With you,
And only you,
For it was made for 2,
So will you?
Dance this dance with me,
Since it calls for only 2? '
She extended her hand out to me,
I tock it greatly,
And then..
We started to dance the dance that was made for 2 :) ...
poem by Sherry Painter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Painter Named William
WILLIAM THE PAINTER
With a great smile that always shines,
he is a great painter, he paints art real fine.
William makes paintings with acrylic, oils and pastels,
he is a realistic painter, muralist and cartoonist as well.
I went to William’s art event,
it was at a church is where I went.
He did a mural on their wall,
it was huge, it wasn’t small.
William has a great eye for shape and form,
he is an original artist, not in the norm.
Now I just saw William today,
he was happy to see me and we talked away.
I will do a mural with him in Lake Worth soon,
we will paint a wall with some cartoons.
Looking forward William to see more of your art,
your art is unique, it sets you apart.
poem by Christina Sunrise
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Canvas (Part 2)
We last left off with such the fright,
She paints—but gasp! —that's not quite right,
For every story has a twist,
And every painting is done on her wrist.
She paints with—sorry? —with little regard,
To what may bleed and what may scar,
But oh, she paints a lovely spar,
Despite the way that most things are.
Some find it funny and watch as she flees,
Others feel sick the moment they see,
Because a painter, she can't have much of a life,
If all of her painting is done with a knife.
This painter—in fact—she thinks she's alone,
Because of the burden of problems at home,
And then there's her mind, a nasty old place,
It's mostly the cause of the paintings she makes.
But one can be trapped, or one can be freed,
Though most painters like her find this hard to believe,
Yet this very painter broke free of her sadness,
And if she ever wonders 'why? ' she can look at her canvas.
poem by Dayna Mortimore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Painter (Ang Pintor)
The Painter...
He colored the sky
He colored the sea
and even the mountains
and the field.
The Painter...
He colored the roses
and even the birds
and animals
in the farm.
The Painter...
even my life...
He colored.
But the Painter,
I guess no one
have seen Him yet.
The Painter...
can anyone paint the colors
of His life?
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Assigned And Commissioned
The picture,
On a canvas painted...
Depicts a specific image,
Much greater than that...
Than the stature presented,
By the creator who made it.
For purposes to solicit a public exhibit.
Certain people selected will be forgiven,
For misdeeds intended.
Since they have an ability to diffuse truth.
No matter how low,
They may stoop to deceive.
With a getting of a reprieve...
To contnue doing as they please.
However...
There is a placement unmistakable,
For others labelled too abstract.
And into custom fittings...
They are deceptively unmatched,
With a matted background...
Known and viewed by just a few,
To be inappropriate for the framing done.
The picture,
On the canvas painted...
Depicts a specific image,
Much greater than that...
Than the stature presented,
By the creator who made it.
For purposes to solicit a public exhibit.
But...
If the painter of a picture,
Is assigned and commissioned...
With a payment no one will turn down to refuse,
Who will not pocket and run...
With a job requested and satisfies when done.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Kahlo
She ran the school hand-in-hand with this boy
Creating mischief and mystery hand-in-hand with this boy
Together, fooling and tricking this man who painted his courage
She gleefully watched this man who painted his courage
She came to school each morning with this boy
Just to watch this mysterious painter man
She left school each night, with this boy
With the trickster boy, left the man
She ran into a block she couldn’t ignore
She was damaged beyond healthy repair
Carrying her as she bled, this boy
Saved her from the wreckage
Then left her to write him time and time again
Never once did he look at her letters, or care
She gave up, gave up on this boy
What could she have loved in this boy?
She picked up a brush and was like the man
She painted her pain and courage, like the man
She adored her paints
Admired her brush
Marveled at the creations
Fell in love with the canvas
Some time later, she again met the painter man
She adored the man
Admired the man
Marveled at the man
Fell in love with the man
poem by Allison Pardieck
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What might be taken for a precocious genius is the genius of childhood. When the child grows up, it disappears without a trace. It may happen that this boy will become a real painter some day, or even a great painter. But then he will have to begin everything again, from zero.
quote by Pablo Picasso
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Johnny McCarthy
He lived in a small house near the Town of Millstreet
At Inchaleigh close to the greyhound track
Some knew him as Johnny the old house painter
Whilst others simply called him Johnny Mac.
He was unmarried never fathered children
Which seems a pity as he'd have made a good dad
In his twilight years he walked his terrier Brandy
And Johnny said the best dog I have had.
He was a house painter and decorator
And he worked hard to earn his every bob
And those he worked for gave him more employment
For Johnny always did a tasty job.
Some people thought him to be a bit grumpy
But is there a perfect person anyway?
When hung over after a night out drinking
One can hardly feel too cheerful the next day.
He was an honest man Johnny McCarthy
A character of sorts in his own way
Since he last walked to Millstreet Town with his dog Brandy
On looking back it seems like yesterday.
Some knew him as Johnny the old house painter
Whilst others simply called him Johnny Mac
He lived at Inchaleigh close to the Town of Millstreet
In his small house close to the greyhound track
poem by Francis Duggan
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To his Mistress
IF he that erst the form so lively drew
Of Venus' face, triumph'd in painter's art ;
Thy Father then what glory did ensue,
By whose pencil a Goddess made thou art.
Touched with flame that figure made some rue,
And with her love surprised many a heart.
There lack'd yet that should cure their hot desire :
Thou canst inflame and quench the kindled dire.
poem by Henry Howard
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It seems like if you are not painted up special way or have some tailor made outfit to put on to go out on stage... I don't know... there's too much of it out there.
quote by Phil Anselmo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There is nothing more difficult for a truly creative painter than to paint a rose, because before he can do so he has first to forget all the roses that were ever painted.
quote by Henri Matisse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Letter to my Father.
If I try to go back into the hands of time
I can't recall the first day of my life
But with care and affection from mom I grew up
With the passing of age to school I went
Father you made me go to school
You made me keen to be in class
And saintly made me take pen and paper
And painted my books with a the colours of my writing
I must apologise my father
Despite the years in class I am not a doctor
Nor a pilot or a lawyer or the teacher you intended
Because I got tired of the books
When I could not cook the answers
I walked out of school
But father do not scold me
Nor poor cold water on my path
Cool down your wrath and smile
I am a self made man of God
I run a multimillion church with a large flock
And I milk them well by the Bible fodder
Father I write this letter to you
Beseeching you to revoke your decision
Of banishing me when I dropped out of school
Because father,
I dine with the kings, date the queens
And I still preach to the emperors of the land
poem by Major Elazia
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nimmo
Since you remember Nimmo, and arrive
At such a false and florid and far drawn
Confusion of odd nonsense, I connive
No longer, though I may have led you on.
So much is told and heard and told again,
So many with his legend are engrossed,
That I, more sorry now than I was then,
May live on to be sorry for his ghost.
You knew him, and you must have known his eyes,—
How deep they were, and what a velvet light
Came out of them when anger or surprise,
Or laughter, or Francesca, made them bright.
No, you will not forget such eyes, I think,—
And you say nothing of them. Very well.
I wonder if all history’s worth a wink,
Sometimes, or if my tale be one to tell.
For they began to lose their velvet light;
Their fire grew dead without and small within;
And many of you deplored the needless fight
That somewhere in the dark there must have been.
All fights are needless, when they’re not our own,
But Nimmo and Francesca never fought.
Remember that; and when you are alone,
Remember me—and think what I have thought.
Now, mind you, I say nothing of what was,
Or never was, or could or could not be:
Bring not suspicion’s candle to the glass
That mirrors a friend’s face to memory.
Of what you see, see all,—but see no more;
For what I show you here will not be there.
The devil has had his way with paint before,
And he’s an artist,—and you needn’t stare.
There was a painter and he painted well:
He’d paint you Daniel in the lion’s den,
Beelzebub, Elaine, or William Tell.
I’m coming back to Nimmo’s eyes again.
The painter put the devil in those eyes,
Unless the devil did, and there he stayed;
And then the lady fled from paradise,
And there’s your fact. The lady was afraid.
She must have been afraid, or may have been,
Of evil in their velvet all the while;
But sure as I’m a sinner with a skin,
I’ll trust the man as long as he can smile.
I trust him who can smile and then may live
In my heart’s house, where Nimmo is today.
God knows if I have more than men forgive
To tell him; but I played, and I shall pay.
I knew him then, and if I know him yet,
I know in him, defeated and estranged,
The calm of men forbidden to forget
The calm of women who have loved and changed.
But there are ways that are beyond our ways,
Or he would not be calm and she be mute,
As one by one their lost and empty days
Pass without even the warmth of a dispute.
God help us all when women think they see;
God save us when they do. I’m fair; but though
I know him only as he looks to me,
I know him,—and I tell Francesca so.
And what of Nimmo? Little would you ask
Of him, could you but see him as I can,
At his bewildered and unfruitful task
Of being what he was born to be—a man.
Better forget that I said anything
Of what your tortured memory may disclose;
I know him, and your worst remembering
Would count as much as nothing, I suppose.
Meanwhile, I trust him; and I know his way
Of trusting me, and always in his youth.
I’m painting here a better man, you say,
Than I, the painter; and you say the truth.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Paint It
I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore, I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
I see a line of cars and they are painted black
With flowers and my love both never to come back
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away
Like a new born baby it just happens every day
I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and its heading into black
Maybe then Ill fade away and not have to face the facts
Its not easy facing up when your whole world is black
I wanna see it painted painted, painted black, oh baby
I wanna see it painted painted, painted black, oh baby
No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not foresee this thing happening to you
If I look hard enough into the setting sun
My love will laugh with me before the morning comes
I wanna see it painted, painted black, oh
Black as night, black as coal
I wanna see the sun blotted from the sky
Painted, painted, painted black oh baby
Painted painted, painted black
song performed by by Vanessa Carlton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I have no ideas about what the paintings imply about the world. I don't think that's a painter's business. He just paints paintings without a conscious reason.
quote by Jasper Johns
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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