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Quotes about palette

Creative Perceptions

Artist appropriate palette prepares
as poet intuitive channels and shares -
perceptions highlighted in paint or in rhyme,
on screen, paper, canvas, [b]rushed, touched outside Time.
Each reaches out writing, foresighting, prepares
stalls [f]rigid for music of spirit sublime.
But few can interpret the talent they praise
in the style of an artist in true paraphrase.

(24 September 2005 robi03_1306)

Bridgework
Artists palette, paints, prepare,
poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
imagination interlinks.

Each respective stream compares
perceptions, self-respecting, thinks
perspectives sensitively, shares

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A Flower To Auroville Mother-52

Flamingo flower(Tail flower, Painter's palette
Anthurium andraeanum)

You wonder with slender neck and heart
That of a flamy bird happily as winging
I'd yet say that of a painter's palette
Your heart holds cups of colours hueing
Unusual I see a splashing bright bract
Flower escorted amid flashy sorrounding
Unusual I see a blossom of deep thought
Timely blooming month more long lasting

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Painter's Life

I do not envy painter's life
Of turpentine and palette knife
Forever waiting for the hand
That rests upon depression's stand

I do not envy gessoed sheets
Awaiting brushstrokes soon to meet
Yet when the work is almost done
Ripped up, unseen by anyone

I do not envy hopeless hours
Expecting inspiration's powers
To seize and lift a dull malaise
And turn a lifeless work ablaze

I do not envy people's awe
Appreciation's loud hurrah
When masterpieces are displayed
The costs the painter for them paid

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In the Picture Gallery

With palette laden
She sat, as I passed her,
A dainty maiden
Before an Old Master.

What mountain-top is
She bent upon? Ah,
She neatly copies
Murillo's Madonna.

But rapt and brimming
The eyes' full chalice says
The heart builds dreaming
Its fairy-palaces.

* * *

The eighteenth year rolled
By, ere returning,
I greeted the dear old

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Studio visit

Feet slightly apart, firm
as at stable ease, yet
ready for the glorious unexpected;

left thumb, pressured
white to pink under the nail,
hooked through wooden palette,

its organic shape summoning
some internal organ – heart,
lungs, kidneys, liver –

squeezed dabs of pure pigment,
waiting, vivid, muted, or in
a cosmic swirl of some new sight;

looked me in the eye and said,
ordinary is so beautiful… the studio silenced,
paint brush poised,

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The Artist's Dilemma

The wind blew in and the wind blew out
And it surged around the eaves,
The door out to the patio slammed
And the yard filled up with leaves,
Then Susan sighed, ‘There's goes my ride,
I was going to take the mare,
Now what can we do on a Sunday when
The wind's so wild out there? '

Her aunt lay back on the couch and stared
At me, with her doe-black eyes,
Not much older than Susan, she
Was Venus, in disguise,
Her fingers ran through her coal-black hair
And her hand smoothed down her thigh,
‘Why don't you ask the artist, dear,
Before his paints run dry.'

I'd finished painting the background in
Of the leaves that swirled in the air,

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Patrick White

He Kept Saying To Himself

He kept saying to himself
it’s not that hard to know the truth.
The truth is what you see
when there’s no one else there
to witness you witnessing it.
When your nakedness lets you be you
without worrying too much
about who that is.
He kept saying to himself
the truth is the infinite elaboration
of an archetypal fractal.
Keep it simple and austere.
The truth is a subatomic shapeshifter.
When you look at it it acts like a particle.
Turn away and it’s a wavelength beyond comprehension.
The swords of the cannoneer cattails
banged on him like a shield in passing
as he covered his eyes
to bull his way through the underbrush
heaving his mud-caked legs

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Of Pacchiarotto, and How He Worked in Distemper

I
Query: was ever a quainter
Crotchet than this of the painter
Giacomo Pacchiarotto
Who took "Reform" for his motto?

II
He, pupil of old Fungaio,
Is always confounded (heigho!)
With Pacchia, contemporaneous
No question, but how extraneous
In the grace of soul, the power
Of hand,—undoubted dower
Of Pacchia who decked (as we know,
My Kirkup!) San Bernardino,
Turning the small dark Oratory
To Siena's Art-laboratory,
As he made its straitness roomy
And glorified its gloomy,
With Bazzi and Beccafumi.

[...] Read more

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waves
from his palette
the beach appears

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The greatest masterpieces were once only pigments on a palette.

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