Painting Primary Method Bypass
wet-on-wet
practice
has become
well-known
primary method
of painting used
by rapid
fire artists
lighter colours
will usually
mix
with darker
colours
if laid
over top
while wet
applied
simple
technique
relies
on painting
from light
colours up
achieving
bestowing
painting
a soft
look
order
allows
colours
to be
blended
to artistic
vision
painter's
desire
no drying
period
required
full
paintings
requiring
maximum
only
a few
minutes
of detail
touch ups
post main
work dry
produced
in short
flame
time
periods
an entire
landscape
in under
half
an hour
burning
hail
massive
next
innovation
digital artwork
caricatures
portraits rocks
holy grail
speed
painting
computer
instant generating
music booming
by Nico
Di Mattia
is heart
kettle drum
storm playing
soul inflaming
imagination
run riot pot roast
heaven dancing
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Related quotes
0021 Under the bridge of time
Oui, c'est beaux, le jardin... at this time of year;
mais... for myself,
a little too overgrown – but Monsieur
prefers it that way… you see him down there
by the lily pond, the nymphées?
He’s nearly blind now, yet he’s out all day
and nearly every day. He draws life from the garden,
je crois; and though there are some who laugh
and say, his paintings are now
mere daubs, when I see them
and then go out into the garden,
there’s a truth there, beyond what we see…
what passes, what floats serene and unaffected...
what floats on time itself...
You may find this fanciful, but I’ve watched Monsieur
over the years: first he had the garden made,
when he could afford it, and the bridge and then the pool
that slows the river… then he painted the lilies which we planted,
floating on the water, all the colours
of sunshine as you see it through a prism…then he painted
the sunlight on the water… then
he seemed to paint the flow of the water
as it passed… and then he seemed to be painting
time itself, passing under the bridge
where we’re standing here, as if
outside time… and now,
qu’est-ce qu’on dit? I think
he’s painting the philosophy of time –
Monsieur Bergson le philosophe
agrees with me – in paint; perhaps
one might say, painting
the future of painting…
yet, the flow of time and death came first, they say:
Monsieur began to paint his water-lilies
after he had seen the photos of the solemn river
of corpses in the trenches
in that terrible war; even, it's said,
the same colours of the unburied dead who putrify
are the same colours that he sees
in the water-lilies...c'est étrange, n'est-ce-pas?
a sort of redemption in the painter's palette...
this, I feel, gives these pretty paintings
the vision that drives Monsieur
to find beauty in its opposite...
but it’s cooling now; Monsieur
likes to enjoy that glowing light of early evening,
the precious departing of the light…
the light of life itself...
I’ll fetch his rug…these artists seem to
lose themselves in what they see…
they don’t seem to notice passing time,
it’s as if they think they live where time is space;
or perhaps, time’s so precious for Monsieur
that he paints it running out…
but I mustn’t keep you, M’sieur Proust –
it was so kind of you to find the time
to visit, and you too, M’sieur Debussy –
it has been quite a day to remember, n’est-ce pas? …
and now for Monsieur’s rug…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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You're My Evergreen
The words we say, old flowers fade away
Remember yesterday, wish it would bloom again
Apathy and pain, here comes the autumn rain
Old apologies scattered in the wings of fate
Cause today it all looks black and white, wish it would change
We can't keep painting colours when its
Don't hesitate, cause you will bleed
A thousand tears won't wash it clean
Don't hesitate cause you can free yourself
Evergreen, evergreen
Down on my knees, crawling though the streets again
Surrendered to my needs, so i can breathe the air
You're my evergreen, regents park in spring
It takes me to a place, where i can dream again
Cause today it all looks black and white, wish it would change
We can't keep painting colours when it rains
I just want some place where i can breathe without this bitter taste
Cause today it all looks black and white, wish it would change
We can't keep painting colours when it's grey
It all looks black and white today
You're my evergreen, regents park in spring
It takes me to a place, where i can dream again
Cause today it all looks black and white, wish it would change
We can't keep painting colours when it rains
Evergreen, evergreen, evergreen
song performed by by Feeder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Colours Of Love
The colours of love,
The colours of unity,
The colours of peace,
The colours of humility,
the colours of care,
The colours of passion,
The colours of romance,
The colours of the mind,
The colours of your works,
The colours of mankind;
But, let true love come out from your heart!
For, in peace and unity we have to live on this earth together:
Than, the bullets of war that divides us always! ! !
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Unpainted Painting
Unpainted Painting.
I found a painting on the dump by the road, heads of many colours
seeking shelter, under a colourful umbrella, against coming storm.
It is an original painting signed and dated 2052, who threw it away?
A black fly walks across the computer screen, when I shush it away
it only indolently moves and settles on the edge of the virtual page.
I look for a newspaper to swat it the devious fly reads my thought,
take lift and disappear Into the painting. Now I can read the name:
FEMA. I got, it the date, the work is not yet made by an artist not yet
born; I’m seeing into a future and if the sad faces are anything to go
by, it doesn’t look too promising. Before the darkness swirled into
the village I put the picture back on the dump, as it wasn’t painted
yet and not for me to see. The black fly was buzzing around my head
whispering words in a in a future language I shall never comprehend
In the morning dustmen came and took away the trash.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Painting
Painting calmed you,
brought tranquillity to your soul
more that a cup of tea could do
and with every brush stroke
of the painter’s pencil
faces got form
and character and soul,
eyes got colour
and followed me anywhere
in that room.
Tuscan streets came to life
with little cafés,
people sitting at tables,
selling bread and arranging
lavender flowers
against the backdrop
of the sky, the sea
and villas on a hill.
Abstract paintings reminded me
of scenes under the sea,
or rural villages
with people in front
of a old TV-set,
black girls smiled charming,
carrying pots on their heads
or children piggyback
looking cute
in a comic character way
and with every painting
I saw your skills grow
and pictures stroked
to the finest detail.
I watch your measuring eye,
you confident hand,
colours being mixed
on a palette board
and part of your soul
became part of me
and we shared
long moments together.
poem by Gert Strydom
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May The Limner
When May is painting with her colours gay
The landscape sketched by April her sweet twin...
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Black Silver
Silver is the mirror,
Where colours cannot run
From one into another
For silver it has none
Silver is a blackness
Which defies pure light to come
And when it does reflects it
Its image still as one
So that when you look upon it
Your face it will become
Not in silver, but the colours,
With which your face does run
Then with your world behind you
By light reflected one
Not in blackness, but in colours
You are colours of the sun
All mirrors do remind us
That colour is the light
And that they do not see us
In the darkness of the night
For colours are but energy
From the spectrum as it falls
On everything around us
Except, from silver balls
The colours of the rainbow
The colours in the sky
The colours of our galaxy
Are in a baby’s eye
Colours all around us
Enable us to see
That the world in which we live, is part of us,
Lifes chemistry
poem by Egal Bohen
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Painting The Walls
painting the walls,
rolling over handprints,
cobwebs, and smoke stains....
over splashes of color,
over peels of time.
painting over the sounds
of voices whispering, laughing....
painting over tears hidden
from the world, from each other.
painting over running, and working,
working all day and half the night.
painting over children, and dreams,
folded like old clothes, and put away.
painting over notes from God,
that were often barely noticed...
painting over the nail that held
up the clock, hands moving slowly,
turning the seasons of living....
painting over the final words,
the last breath held in the hands,
of lives written in the grain....
the testimony of each feeling....
painting the walls,
and brushing the corners,
as if we never lived!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Colours
Colours are just colours
One might suppose
Rage is red…
But then again…
so is a rose
So colours are more
Than they seem, don’t’ you think
For boys it’s usually blue
For little girls always pink
Yep, colours are colours
Perhaps that’s all they should be
Just something to look at
Only something to see
But colours have emotion
At least they do to me
Perhaps I just don’t see hues
In the same way
that you see
Because blue to me
Is more than just a hue
It’s the sky, it’s berries,
Oceans … and sadness too
Green is envy, grass and dinero
Purple is royalty, plums and passion
Yellow is cowardice, butter and tallow
Colours are … whatever you wish to fashion
Perhaps I see colours differently than you
Perhaps exactly the same way… I hope
But my advice to you, whatever you do
Is … don’t get me started on taupe! !
poem by David Whalen
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Madonna portrait
I saw you painting,
not a sideways glance
of a elephant head
with deep creases showing,
or the neck of a giraffe,
not a Tuscan scene
with tables with white table clothes,
neither an abstract scene
in blue, green and gold.
A portrait unfolded before my eyes,
not a half naked nymph,
or wood fairy
but a Madonna without child
pregnant and serene
looking utterly holy
with olive skin
and great big innocent eyes
against dark colours
in a ruby red cloak.
Your fingers mixed colours expertly
on the palette
to the right exact hue
and blazing lights
lit the canvas
on the easel
and the painting
became an old world masterpiece
with stroke after little stroke
adding depth and meaning
and somewhere in the distance
a midnight-black dragon appeared
with a open mouth
as if drawing nearer
truly alive
detailed to the smallest respect
and evil in every way.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Symphony Of Colours
I am a painter,
My hands hold a brush,
Moving as my heart wants,
Laughing the joy and crying the sorrow of my life.
I am playing with warm colours,
Using shadows I am emphasizing light,
I want the mankind see the beauty,
Of the marvelous world we have around.
Colours shine on my blank canvas,
In tones of rainbow and joyful lights,
All the warmth of the living,
Is concentrated in a piece of art.
Vibrant colours are merging together,
Dancing in shadows and lights,
All the past and the present lies here,
Being a reflection of my mind.
My thoughts are filling my canvas,
The brush strokes are following my dream,
Expressing the depths of my heart,
A symphony of colours has many stories to tell.
poem by Cristina Teodor
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Fancy Colours
Going where the orange sun has never died
And your swirling marble eyes shine
Laughing
Burning blue the light
Bittersweet the drops of life
Memories only fading
Fancy colours
Fancy colours
All we ever did see
When were down at the sea
We see things so very clear at the sea
Fancy colours
Fancy colours
All we ever can do
The morning covered with dew
We do things so very fine in the dew
Fancy colours
Fancy colours
All we ever do hear
But whether were here or there
We hear things so very fine when were there
song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Remember that a painting - before it is a battle horse, a nude model, or some anecdote - is essentially a flat surface covered with colours assembled in a certain order.
quote by Maurice Denis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paintings
colours, they bring back
scenes and scents
your painting, it brings
brings me back all the years
still i can sit in that chair of
that long lost cafe and
have the privilege of a
tete a tete with friends,
imagined and real
of things we all cherish
the love of art and all the things
that it brings - scenes,
scents, and the time
we thought is lost
forever in time
Second Version
--
colours, they bring back
scenes and scents
your painting, it brings
brings me back all the years
still i can sit in that chair of
that long lost cafe and
have the privilege of a
tete a tete with friends,
imagined and real
of things we all cherish
the love of art and all the things
that it brings - scenes,
scents and geniuses
overheated talents
that drove them lunatics,
madmen manoevring
with the coldness
of the arctics
volcanoes that explode
splotches, dashes
splashes, onto the
canvas of their dreams
colours, they bring back
scenes and scents
paintings, they bring back
all the years nature plods on
against adversities to help
the artist pour out its best onto canvas
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fancy Colors
Robert Lamm, 1970)
Going where the orange sun has never died
And your swirling marble eyes shine
Laughing
Burning through the light
Bittersweet the drops of life
Memories only fading
Fancy Colours, fancy Colours
All we ever did see
When we're down at the sea
We see things so very bright at the sea
Fancy Colours, fancy Colours
All we ever can do
The morning covered with dew
We do things so very fine at the dew
Fancy Colours, fancy Colours
All we ever do hear
The world wether we're hear or there
We hear things so very fine when we're there
Andr Velloso - Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
[email protected]
song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A vase of flowers
I saw a vase of purple-pink roses
lying on your dark brown buffet
and simply had to have it.
“Who painted this, ” I immediately enquired
loving the picture more with each look
that I took of it
as it’s not your thing
to paint still life’s with flowers.
“I painted it. It’s like painting pillow slips, ”
you replied and astonished
I looked at it again
and this was on board
and not in water colours
but done with oil paint.
The folds of the cups were edged
in ridges along their lines
using the techniques
of your abstract paintings
and one smaller unopened bud
laid next to the bowl
almost running into your name.
Little pink flowers was in the background
where the transparent vase with green stems
was against the wall on a tiled floor.
[Reference: Vase with roses by Mandi Engelbrecht. (This painting belongs to me.) ]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Colourful Family Tree
This world is made up of colours and,
I am glad to come up from a colourful family tree.
There are many colours around us and,
You can enjoy the colours in your bathrooms too;
For nature is full of colours!
Like the human beings,
I an brown in colour and my mother is a black woman from Africa.
I have many relatives all over the continets and,
My father is a white man from the U.S.A.
Four of my aunties are from Australia, Japan, Brazil and the U.K.;
Four of my uncles are from India, Mexico, Canada and Denmark;
So i grew up among many colours of this world.
A colourful family tree is what i came from and,
I am very glad to meet various colours in my life time;
For a long the lines of my growth,
I have come to love all the colours around me.
Colours are very beautiful and we need them around us,
They are in your offices and your houses too;
Yes, we need all the colours to beautify things around us.
Black is beautiful and white is beautiful too,
For we were made from the Creator with colours!
And i am very glad to be part of this family tree.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Colours of Autumn
Coppery red leaves,
Falling from trees,
That soon will be bare.
The colours of Autumn.
Piles of reddish brown,
Lying scattered on the ground.
And a chill in the air.
The colours of Autumn.
The sky is grey,
Shorter days,
And darker nights.
The colours of Autumn.
Evenings bathed in gold,
Thunderclouds so bold,
And weaker sun, not as bright.
The colours of Autumn.
poem by Amy Darnbrook
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When I'm painting the picture, I'm really painting a picture. I may have a flat-footed technique, or something like that, but still, to me, the thrill, or the meat of the thing, is the actual painting. I don't get any thrill out of laying it out.
quote by Frank Stella
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paintings by fliss II Not So Abstract
Canvas on stand
Colours to the side
Pallet in hand
Let the brush slide
Orange and green
Coming from deep
Painting oh! Oh So serene
Trance like, almost a dream
Curves so sensual
The colours just flow
Enraptures, almost physical
Easy strokes, nice and slow
Show what's inside
Bristles caressing
Your hearts not lied
Smoothly, not fussing
Featherlight touch
Not a hint of blue
Like a lovers first touch
Exploring anew
Painted not drawn
Not one to delete
As fresh as the dawn
Canvas complete
RG/fliss
poem by Robert Green
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