His Artistic Brush
A model sits motionless with diaphanous drape,
The paint in tubes, lies waiting for an escape,
An easel's standing, so central to the room,
On it a canvas. And nearby in the gloom,
An Artist leans casually against an open door,
Been thinking long, but now crosses the floor,
Pulls back the blinds to let the light rush in,
Adjusts his spectacles and prepares to begin,
Then with a flourish of his artistic brush,
Starts slowly to create a picture that's so plush,
A Work of Art maybe, perhaps an important one,
Which might see his name in lights, when it is done.
Needing to observe, he lifts his eyes to peep,
And finds that his model has fallen fast asleep.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Related quotes
You Only Paint The Picture Once
(Teddy Gentry/Randy Owen/Ronnie Rogers/Greg Fowler)
Look at those evening shadows
Casting a peaceful light
The sun is disappearing
It's a beautiful sight
Moments caught forever
By the master's touch
A lasting reminder
To us
You only paint the picture once
(And) you only get one chance
Take the time to do your best
While the brush is in your hand
Make sure it's just right
Before the colors dry
You can't change it once it's done
You only paint the picture once
Love is the canvas
That's where it all starts
A lifetime together
Becomes a work of art
Just look what's been created
Between your heart and mine
Oh I believe that we're one of a kind
You only paint the picture once
(And) you only get one chance
Take the time to do your best
While the brush is in your hand
Make sure it's just right
Before the colors dry
You can't change it once it's done
You only paint the picture once
It's a portrait of life
You can't live it twice
You only paint the picture once
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Model Citizen
Be an Arab
Be a Jew
Be a boxing
Kangaroo
Beat yourself
All black and blue
I don't care
Be a bleeder
Be a Cancer
A hemophiliac
Romancer
Be a crippled disco
Dancer
Oooh... What a pair
He's a model citizen
I think I've got them fooled them again
He's an ultra-sweety guy
And a master of disguise
He's a model citizen
Just keep believing that my friends
I'm a model citizen
I'm a model citizen
I'm a model citizen
I'm a model citizen
I'm an all American!!!
I'm a hostage
In a city of creeps
They've got mercenary guards
That watch me sleep
They'd like to kill me slow
Bury me deep
In the heart of Texas
I'm a martyr
I'm a sadist
I might be the Saviour here to save us
I'm a friend of Sammy Davis, casually
He's a model citizen
I think I've got them fooled again
He's an ultra-sweety guy
I won't let down my disguise
He's a model citizen
Just keep believing that my friends
I'm a model citizen
I'm a model citizen
I'm a model citizen
I'm a model citizen
I'm an all American
I'm a model citizen
I'm a model citizen
I'm a model citizen
I'm an all American
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When is a Painting Finished?
I paint.
On my easel
pictures in oil and acrylic grow
like stalagmites in limestone caves.
I think that painting is a magical act
that transforms invisible thoughts
and feelings into visible colors
and forms.
But I never can tell
when is the work finished.
After all it is always possible
to change a line, a hue, or a color
or even the whole composition.
Painters have different opinions
about this.
Some say that when the artist
successfully planted
all the details onto the canvas
the image expresses itself
as a severed autonomous entity,
which frees the painter from
the task of continuing to paint.
From then on the painting gains
an independent inner life of its own.
However, abandoning a work of art
involves a moral decision
ripened by the stiffening tension
between skill, creativity and integrity.
At what point does the polished image
meet the artist’s expectations?
And then, even if it does,
no single image can express
all that an artist wants to show,
and consequently his muses
compel him to carry on with his work
and create more paintings.
Hence the oeuvre of the artist
evolves as a set of different images
of the same single thrust and grind.
Many years ago I was wandering
through the countryside
of southern France in Provence.
Once I stopped to look at the road
where the village met the meadow.
A sturdy artist stood there
in front of his easel
painting the landscape
with skilful brushstrokes
on a well-stretched canvas.
I stared for a while
at the burgeoning picture
and then asked him:
“How do you know
when is the composition complete? ”
He gave me a piercing glance.
“Well”, he said,
“if you take a hammer
and hit me on the head
I know that the painting is finished.”
poem by Paul Hartal
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The Portrait of Rachel Fayne
She glided into the studio
And dropped her clothes on the floor,
Gave the artist a pirouette,
And said: 'Do you want any more? '
He shrugged, and told her to take a seat
While he etched the background in,
'I'll paint you draped on the canapé,
I'll tell you, when I begin! '
She wandered naked around the room,
At home in the artist's den,
Rachel Fayne was the model's name,
She'd modelled since she was ten.
From auburn hair to her shapely calves
She'd stared from a hundred scenes,
That hung in frames under different names
As a slave, or a Gypsy Queen.
Her lips were full and her eyes were green,
They'd startled men in the past,
Staring from frames in the galleries,
In the windows of shops they passed,
So haughty and so beautiful,
And beyond the reach of men,
Yet here she'd bare, for all to share
Through the brush in the artist's den!
She hadn't sat for John Durrell
Before, but she knew his work,
The famous 'Woman of Paddington',
The 'Girl by the Friendly Kirk, '
His 'Venus under the Waterfall' -
Her heart had skipped a bit,
As she stared green-eyed in her wounded pride,
Would he never ask her to sit?
The summons came through a friend of hers,
'Be there, first thing in the morn! '
She'd bathed, and powdered her body well
By the light of the breaking dawn,
For John Durrell was a master, skilled
And she knew it would seal her fame,
To be tied to an R.A. masterpiece,
And the famous Durrell name.
'Don't ask too many questions, he's
Intense, and immersed in paint,
He's hard and cold, and inclined to scold
If you don't sit still, or faint,
He'll look at you like a curlicue,
An enigma of line and form,
His passion is brushed in his pictures,
So, it won't keep your body warm! '
He laid her out on the canapé
And took up his sable brush,
Mixed the tint on his palette there,
For the flesh tones, and the blush,
He worked with a growing intensity
And he frowned, as if in pain,
As he brought the features to life within
The portrait of Rachel Fayne.
She wasn't to see the canvas, he
Would cover it, out of sight,
Before she dressed, and took her fee,
Was bundled into the night,
Each day she lay on the canapé,
Each day he'd frown and paint,
'There's something isn't quite right, ' he'd say,
In a tone of quiet constraint.
While Rachel felt there was something wrong
With her, a cold or flu,
Perhaps it was her complexion,
It had taken a lighter hue,
She felt quite sick to her stomach,
Couldn't eat, and her sight was dim,
But he'd continued on painting, so
She held her sickness in.
While there on the painted canvas was
A beauty, so profound,
Her eyes of the deepest green, that seemed
To follow him around,
The lips were a pouting marvel,
Breathing life to the easel there,
Durrell becoming excited with
Each brush stroke through her hair.
His heart was beating much faster with
Each stroke applied anew,
The love that cozened, eluded him
Began to seep on through,
While Rachel gasped to take each breath
And couldn't speak, or think,
As the woman within the picture, well...
Her eyes, they seemed to blink!
The canvas facing the furthest wall
Belongs to John Durrell,
The first and the only portrait that
He swears he'll never sell,
For where the woman had been, is white,
No paint was left behind,
And Rachel Fayne, before she died,
They say that she was blind!
22 January 2010
poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Artist
He stands at no easel, he mixes no paint,
He colours no canvas to gladden the eye,
Yet the picture he makes will not fade or grow faint
Till our love of the chase shall desert us and die.
He's an artist of parts
Who appeals to the hearts
That can thrill to good hunting and hounds in full cry.
By his seat in the saddle, his touch on the reins,
His skill and his mastery, who can gainsay
That here is an artist in all that pertains
To the horse and his handling - a real R.A. ?
An artist 'twould irk
Not to cut out the work
When the hats are crammed down and a fox is away.
You will find him no centre of salon or crush,
No letters attached to his name may he sign,
But there's no one so eager to handle the Brush
And there's none so consistently found on the Line.
If an artist you ask,
Here's the man for the task,
Making pictures where keenness and courage combine.
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Unashamed Art
The artist who hides the model's beauty
won't allow others to see
the beauty of the model who poses
hidden by drapery.
But the artist who describes the beauty
allows the model to be
adorned in the garment given by God
which is painted naturally.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Positive Role Model
Here we are
where we were
back on everything
Went too far
now we're fine
back on everything
So much for making it day by day
Back on everything
Instead of taking another way
we're back on everything
I want a positive role model
I want a positive role model
My reflection on the street
Is that the way I walk?
Introspection as I speak
I need to change the way I talk
In a changing world
there's so much you could be
Why can't you choose your self
like your enemy?
Have you ever imagined
a new you?
I could be someone else
Somebody new
Reinvention:
my intention
I want a positive role model
I want a positive role model
I want a positive role model
I want a positive role model
song performed by by Pet Shop Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As An Artist
As an artist,
I carefully paint
a picture on my
canvas
with each stroke
I wipe away a tear
causing a smile to
reappear
As an artist
I endow your face
with my brush
making it more
perfect as I go
until at last the
image of my love
I see.
poem by Heather Burns
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At that point it certainly would be called abstract. That is to say, you had a model and there'd be one or two or three people there drawing the model but otherwise you had abstractions all around the room, even though the model was in front of you.
quote by Lee Krasner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Artistic
Artistic
It's artistic
Grace in your movement
Is artistic.
Artistic
It's artistic
Sweetness in your voice
Is artistic.
Artistic
It's artistic
Gleam in your eye
Is artistic.
I'm filled with inspiration
In my dormant artistic pursuit...
With brush in hand
I'll paint your every move
With hidden treasure of words
I'll weave poems of what you say
And I'll move as you command
By the gleam of your eye.
poem by Tirupathi Chandrupatla
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Daily Life
the procedure is the same all day
repeating and
always repeated
for making a difference is
a risk
altering the pattern simply
gives birth to
pain and so one goes all over
again
start with a picture of oneself
then the other
perhaps a model or the object
of your
physical desire and stay there
for a while
somehow you wish you move
to a higher level
like something emotional or
self-redeeming like something
higher than oneself
the spiritual but you come to the
conclusion that the environment
is simple enough
all images or tangible walls
and wooden bridges below the boats
keep on sailing even without you
in it
you hold on to what is
routine
there is no fear here
the formula keeps on working for you
a self, a picture of yourself, another
picture of the other
then you wrap your body with
your arms
and it is so comforting
no sweat
things shall begin again as usual
you step outside the
door and
mix as usual with the crowd
where no one knows you
and you know no one
at night you arrive on a room
nothing's altered
the smell is the same
and then
you open the window
there are no stars
all city lights
damned.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Introduction To Solution
Sung by the tramp:
While the rich get their kicks with their affluent antics
Mr. black sits and ponders their fate.
He just sits in the gloom of his dimly-lit room
Waiting for them to swallow the bait.
While the rich run their rackets he sits in his attic
And casually clocks their defeat.
While the politicians cover up mistakes that theyve made
And all the promises, the lies and deceits.
A military coup has been long overdue.
Now theres fighting and panic in the streets.
Amid the mass disillusion, disorder and confusion,
He will rise now his plan is complete.
But me, Im only standing here
Watching it all go on and Im watching it all go wrong
And its painfully clear that the battle is near
And I wish I could just disappear.
While flash and his men drink champagne in their den
And debase life with crude ostentation,
The poor cry for more, but theyre reaching the point
Where the people cant stand any more.
But me, Im only standing here
Watching it all go on, and Im watching it all go wrong
And its painfully clear that the battle is near
And I wish I could just disappear.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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And, since the model he faithfully copies is not going to be hung up next to the picture, since the picture is going to be there on its own, it is of no interest whether it is an accurate copy of the model.
quote by Lucian Freud
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wonder
When the pressure will not fade away
When the real things starts to become fake
When you cant recognize your own hands
Turn around and begin again
When the sky starts ripping and falling
And the horizon is no longer calling please
Dont try to make it on emptiness
Turn around and begin again
But I have wondered about what it is all for
But I can do no more than shout
And I am still standing unsure
If your eyes become glazed with indifference
If your screaming with lips that are silent
If you cant find light in the day
Turn around and begin again
But I have wondered about what it is all for
But I can do no more than shout
And I am still standing unsure
When you cannot find yourself anywhere
If your standing but feel your not really there
If your waiting for someone to catch you
Turn around and begin again
If you cant seem to find whats been to be found
In a heart that pumps rage as your only sound
If your waiting to be blown away
Turn around and begin again
But I have wondered about what it is all for
But I can do no more than shout
And I am still standing unsure
But now and then
Now and then
I wonder.
song performed by by Vanessa Carlton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's not an Israeli model, it's a TSA, screwed-up model. It should actually be the person who's looking at the ticket and talking to the individual. Instead, they've hired people to stand around and observe, which is a bastardization of what should be done.
No-Name The Cat
The cat and I stare at the room
No-name the cat, the cat and I,
She stares at me, I at the gloom
The house lies still as a vaulted tomb.
She sits and waits, No-name the cat,
Sits and waits for a sign from me
But I in the corner chair am sat
And make no sign for No-name the cat.
We’re all alone, alone are we
No-name the cat, the cat and I
Only the two, No-name and me
Yet once in the past we numbered three.
Now on the floor, between us two
No-name the cat, and me, lies you.
Your eyes are staring, your cheek is slack,
Your tongue’s thrust out and your face is blue.
The cat and I stare at the room
No-name the cat, the cat and I,
She stares at me, I at the gloom
The house lies still as a vaulted tomb.
30 June 1999
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Since the model he so faithfully copies is not going to be hung up next to the picture... it is of no interest whether it is an accurate copy of the model.
quote by Lucian Freud
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Still Life In Oils-De Jour
You painted a most exquisite picture
...Brush stroked her canvas delicately
With feathered brush-a touch
...Tinting with royal hues-
And crimson red coloured views...
'Tis a still life of a woman in degrees...
...A breath-taking piece of divinity...
A true masterpiece of elegance...
...Your virgin work of art...
Captured by your most artistic keen eye
...Creme De la Creme Ala Carte...
poem by Theodora Onken
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The Little Flower Girl
Down at the church the flower girl sits. legs innocent, apart.
I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart.
Painted sister stopped beside. a word upon her saintly lip.
Perhaps admonishing the child inside the open slip.
I dont know where she might go when she runs home at night.
Its for the best: I wouldnt rest when I turned out the light.
No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream----
Just an old mans model in a pose from a magazine.
I have touched that face a dozen times before. and I have let my pencil run.
Laid down washes on a foreign shore, under a hot and foreign sun.
My best sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm.
Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm.
I close the door. she is no more until the next appointed hour.
Northeastern light push back the night: painted promises in store.
No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream----
Just an old mans model in a pose from a magazine.
Down at the church my flower girl sits. legs innocent, apart.
I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart.
My golden sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm.
Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm.
I mean no harm. I mean.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Great Escape
(music: marillion lyrics: steve hogarth & john helmer)
Heading for the great escape
Heading for the rave
Heading for the permanent holiday
Heading for the winter trip
Heading for the slide
Heading for the dignified walk away
Heading for the open road
Goodbye to all that
Heading for the automatic overload
Standing in the open boat
Standing in the swing
Waiting for the ringing and the bright light
Waiting to be recognised
Quiet applause will do
They shower you with flowers when they bury you
Youre holding on, youre holding on ...
(I) the last of you
Just when I thought Id seen the last of you
You come here scratchin at my door
Your pain and angers in the howling dark
Of every corridor I walk
So tell me more about the love that you rejected
Tell me more about the trust you disrespected
I still dont know, why did you hurt the very one
Why did you hurt the very one that you should have protected?
(ii) fallin from the moon
Dont ask me why Im doing this
You wouldnt understand
Youre asking the wrong questions
You couldnt understand
A bridge is not a high place
The fifty-second floor
Icarus would know
A mountain isnt far to fall
When youve fallen from the moon
Theres murder on the street
Im ashes on the water now, somewhere far away
I have fallen, fallen from the moon
song performed by by Marillion
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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