#The Work of a Painter

[falseandrealultravival]

Picasso: Poulenc (Poetry: Éluard): The Scene of Creation (Classic)

Poulenc is one of the leading contemporary French composers. Based on the poems of Paul Éluard, he wrote a collection of songs called "The Work of a Painter", the first of which is "Picasso". It's a magnificent song, and it's enough to sing about the process of Picasso's creation.

ピカソ：プーランク（詩：エリュアール）：創造の現場（クラシック）

プーランクは、現代フランスの代表的な作曲家である。彼はポール・エリュアールの詩をもとに、「画家の仕事」という歌曲��を作っているが、その第1曲目が「ピカソ」である。気宇壮大な曲で、ピカソの創造の経緯を歌って余りある。

　

Entoure ce citron de blanc d'œuf informe Enrobe ce blanc d'œuf d'un azur souple et fin La ligne droite et noire a beau venir de toi L'aube est derrière ton tableau Et les murs innombrables croulent Derrière ton tableau et toi l'œil fixe Comme un aveugle comme un fou Tu dresses une haute épée dans le vide Une main pourquoi pas une seconde main Et pourquoi pas la bouche nue comme une plume Pourquoi pas un sourire et pourquoi pas des larmes Tout au bord de la toile où jouent les petits clous Voici le jour d'autrui laisse aux ombres leur chance Et d'un seul mouvement des paupières renounce

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Surround this lemon with shapeless egg white

Coats this egg white with a supple and fine azure

The straight and black line may well come from you

Dawn is behind your painting

And countless walls crumble

Behind your painting and you staring

Like a blind man like a madman

You raise a high sword in the void

One hand why not a second hand

And why not bare mouth like a feather

Why not a smile and why not tears

Right at the edge of the canvas where the little nails play

Here is the day of others leave to the shadows their chance

And with a single movement of the eyelids renounces

(2023.04.11)

[tamberella]

Endpage art from The Bakery Dragon

[annonnex]

Eheheheh my favorite puters

[draculasweedsmokinggirlfriend]

Let's not pretend that Oscar Wilde isn't spinning in his grave so violently we could entirely switch to green, renewable energy at this news of Dorain and Basil being portrayed as fucking siblings in this new show

[archiepelago]

alternate surface au inspired by a few ive seen around on tumblr :3

[xformalde-hyde]

Don't know why, but something about BP's design has always bothered me a little, so here's my attempts at messing with my version of him

[lepetitdragonvert]

Summer Dance

Artist : Dorothy Fitchew (fl. 1910-1922)

[bixels]

Every day I feel the vicious urge to start working on a fake opening title sequence to The Grand Galloping 20s' first story, The Witch From Ponyville, as a proof of concept. I've been watching old Disney movie openings.

[feligayzed]

rings dinner bell FOOD IS SERVED

originally i was gonna post his ref with Painter's but i can actively feel myself getting lazy and i just want to get this out into the world :,3 BEHOLD SURFACE SEB in all his angsty glory

this ended up looking more like brain vomit than i intended but OH WELL i'm not touching it anymore ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

[fairmoans]

A sneak peek at a painting I just finished, oil on linen

My IG Art tumbr Website

[ark-angel]

"I Did Not Fall" ★ Acrylic and collage on canvas ★ 8/23/24

[ghostbeam]

Tomura shigaraki x reader, tomura is an art student, takes place in the same universe as my charcoal artist!dabi stuff, tomura is like very insecure in some of this, if the writing feels pretentious and flowery and unnecessary that’s because it is<3

His hair is getting long.

Running your fingers through the ends, you notice how it’s nearing his shoulders now. His head is in your lap, staring up at you as you lean against the mountain of pillows on your bed, clad in a pair of underwear and the tee shirt he arrived in. His jeans are stained with paint, hanging low on his hips, unbuttoned and quickly thrown on so he wasn’t naked and vulnerable in your lap. You thumb at the scar by the corner of his mouth and he kisses it, then your palm, then your wrist. Tomura takes your hand in between three careful fingers and places it over his heart.

Love is not how they told you it would be.

The two of you were assigned to the same group in painting iii, formed so that the students could give one another critiques independently. Only, you couldn’t find a single thing to critique in his work.

Tomura worked with oils—or Tomura lived and breathed and died for them. He painted people, always caught in a moment, in the middle of talking, or yelling, or drinking, or sleeping. His attention to detail was unlike anything you’d ever seen before, colors you’d never realized could appear in skin tones, shine on limbs and cheeks that made his subjects both more alive and human than any real person. His work felt sort of dirty, sweaty, perpetually damp. But it was beautiful. You couldn’t say a thing about it.

He’d confronted you about it one afternoon, stuffing handouts from the professor into his bag, which looked to be filled with more loose paper and no text books.

“Do you hate it that much?” It was the first time he’d ever talked to you, actually talked to you and not just about your work during a critique. “You never have anything to say.”

It stuns you for a moment, his anger and annoyance, how he’s decided to aim it at you instead of the group of people clamoring for issues with his painting all class period.

“I’m supposed to point out flaws, tell you where you could have done better, explain how I wasn’t moved,” you explain, staring down at your shoes, “but I can’t do that. There’s not—I don’t see how I could possibly tell you how you could do better.”

“That’s bullshit.” He mutters, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Don’t just say what I want to hear. I won’t like you any more for it.”

He leaves you standing alone in the classroom. Like you? He thought it was about being liked? You’re in such awe of him that you can’t speak, and he thinks you’re just trying not to hurt his feelings.

During the next class, when he stands before your group for critique, you don’t say a word. And he keeps looking at you like he’s waiting for it, like you’ll be angry enough at him for last week that you’ll rip his painting apart. But your silent, once again. Nothing’s changed.

He’s the first one out of the class once you’re dismissed. He walks fast, and you’re out of breath by the time you catch up with him, resting a hand on his shoulder that he flinches away from. Your breath comes out in quick puffs that you can see, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself as you fix him with a glare.

“You’re wrong.” You say once he’s turned around. “I don’t care if you like me or not after critique. It’s not about sparing your feelings. I’ve never seen anything like what you do. And I watch you in class, and you paint like something is clawing it’s way out of you, like you need to do it or you’ll die.”

“You’re honest with everyone else but me.” He argues, unable to accept your words. You have real things to say to your peers. You don’t hold back with them. You make them better. Why couldn’t you do that for him?

“You are not everyone else.” You watch his eyes widen at your words, and if you had any shame, maybe you wouldn’t have said something so bold. “You’re leagues above all of us. Everyone knows it, and that’s why they’re harsh on you.”

Where you say nothing, your group rips into him, picking at each and every detail until there’s nothing left. He takes it all in stride, accepting their words like it’s absolute truth, and returning to his canvas with sunken shoulders and furrowed brows, concentrated on how he could be better. It’s exactly what they want.

He opens his mouth the say something, but stops, feeling a drop of something fall on his cheek. He looks up at the dark clouds above the two of you, and it begins to rain. He curses, taking a hold of your hand and leading you underneath the front of the design building.

“They’re harsh because I deserve it.” He points out, still holding your hand. You could say a million things right now, tell him in detail how moved you are by every piece he makes, but his hand is still in yours, and you don’t trust yourself not to trip over your words because of it. You can only shake your head.

“Why can’t you accept that you’re brilliant?” You question, exasperated. It makes him laugh, his smile being something you’ve never seen before. It makes you think of all the people who have seen this smile before, the stretch of his lips, the creases by his eyes. Had they felt this lucky?

“I think you’re crazy.” He tells you, knocking his knuckles against your head.

“Do you wanna go out?” You ask before you’re able to stop yourself. He leans away from you, surprised.

“What?” You can’t find the words to speak, to tell him you’re sorry, that it was uncalled for, that you’re a total creep. His face is red, you notice. He speaks a moment later, “yes.”

Rising from your lap, he leans over you, kissing your lips with as much tenderness as he had your palm. Your lips are his favorite thing to paint, second only to your thighs which he grips tightly as he wraps your legs around his waist.

When he’d met you, all full of hope and belief in him of all people, he’d thought of you as such a faraway thing. Unattainable. If you couldn’t talk about his work, there was no way you’d ever talk to him. But he was wrong, something he rarely ever is, your faith in him changing how he viewed his own art forever.

He paints you. He paints you a lot. He even paints the two of you together, though your faces are never in those ones, just bodies tangled together on one canvas. He’d call you his muse if you didn’t hate it. And besides, he knows you’re so much more.

If there had been something inside of him clawing it’s way out, you had noticed it, freed it, kept it safe with you so it wasn’t so agonizing to carry on his own.

No, it’s not how they told him it would be at all.

[pr3ttyf4wn]

a new fairy couple has dropped in the mushroom circle

painter!matt x muse!reader⋆·˚ ༘ *

thank you to @raesalvatore for the idea also inspired by this post I made

"Will you stop moving? Please, you're really messing up my painting here, babe." Matt mumbles as you shiver yet again, shifting to the side a bit causing the dark pink paint he was using to smear into a green section ruining the flower painting he had on the plane of your back.

"It's cold, the paint is cold, Matt." You grumble but lay your head down on your arms to lay as still as possible for Matt to continue his painting.

You're his muse in everything he does. Every painting he makes, every sketch, every drawing, it's all you.

But you got tired of posing for hours, not being able to move too much or use your phone or read a book, all for the painting. So Matt decided that you would be the canvas instead of the muse. You can use your phone or read, still can't move too much so you guess it isn't really different from being the muse.

A few more hours of this and Matt's finally done, paint is splattered on his hands and his clothes, some even in his eyebrow, as he sits back on the heels of his feet. "Done."

Theres a gorgeous pink carnation,your favorite, in the middle of your back and it crawls up the middle of your shoulder blades, stopping at the nape of you neck. Its the center of a vase of flowers, a small blue ribbon wrapped around the lip of the vase. He has you pose for a few pictures for his Instagram and shows you the final product.

"It's gorgeous, honey. I'm so proud of you and the painting and I'm so happy I could be your canvas but, can you please wipe it off? My back itches."

a pr3ttyf4wn scroll ☆

taglist ☆ @chrissypoosworld @cup1dsd3ad @hrtsdollie @slxt4chriss

@jetaimevous @cherib3lla @mommykinks4matt @venusiers @chrispotatos

@pearlzier @shadowthesim

[annonnex]

I rarely draw Sebastian and Pink interacting so I gave it a try I guess

[iluvjuicybooty]

🤍🤎🤍🤎

[gameraboy2]

The Painter on His Way to Work by Vincent Van Gogh, 1888