Quotes About Color

Just as music is noise that makes sense, a painting is colour that makes sense, so a story is life that makes sense.

I felt I was beating a rainbow to death

I felt like I was beating a rainbow to death.

It was a placid explosion of orange and red, a great chromatic symphony, a colour canvas of supernatural proportions, truly a splendid Pacific sunset, quite wasted on me.

there's sunlight and shade, spots and patterns of colour, your mind is elsewhere–so you don't make out what is right in front of you.

Red is much nicer than blue.

I see the flowers in the vase. They are wild flowers and were born without being planted. They are yellow.

Color is my daylong obsession, joy, and torment.

What keeps my heart awake is colorful silence.

When you go out to paint, try to forget what objects you have before you, a tree, a house, a field or whatever. Merely think here is a little square of blue, here an oblong of pink, here a streak of yellow, and paint it just as it looks to you, the exact color and shape.

I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers

I am installed in a fairylike place. I do not know where to poke my head; everything is superb, and I would like to do everything, so I use up and squander lots of color, for there are trials to be made.

Women think of all colors except the absence of color. I have said that black has it all. White too. Their beauty is absolute. It is the perfect harmony.

In black and white it had been easy to ignore. But here was a television station with the audacity to send pictures of real red blood into everyone's home. Our boys in the field were bleeding in color.

Niech na twym niebie nie bÄ™dzie chmur, a jeÅ›li bÄ™dÄ… to niech majÄ… kolor i zapach ró?y.

So many writers had grown lyrical over spring. And, one must admit, it was easy to love a lamb: but how soon that engaging frivolity would yield to the placid idiocy of its inheritance; it was not easy to love a sheep. Summer? Yes, but it was overweighted, overcolored. No - for herself she preferred late autumn, when line returned, with wider, subtler blends of color and experience.

Sand can be any shade of yellow, from peroxide blond to canary, or even with a tinge of pink. Yellow sand is tender.

Another man would have trouble imagining it, but he has no trouble. The red of a carpet's ground, the flush of the robin's breast or the chaffinch, the red of a wax seal or the heart of the rose: implanted in his landscape, cered in his inner eye, and caught in the glint of a ruby, in the color of blood, the cardinal is alive and speaking. Look at my face: I am not afraid of any man alive.

It is a wan morning, low unbroken cloud; the light, filtering sparely through glass, is the color of tarnished pewter. How brightly colored the king is, like the king in a new pack of cards: how small his flat blue eye. There

Such beautiful scarlet hair....Why don't we call you 'Erza Scarlet'? It's the color of your hair, that way, I won't forget it!" -Jellal Fernandes

I remembered... It was the colour of your hair. Farewell...Erza. ~I'm Jellal Fernandez. What about you, Erza?(I'm Erza. Just Erza.) Well, that's kind of sad. Ohh!(Hey...What are you doing?!)It's such a pretty scarlet colour...I know! We'll give you the last name of Scarlet!(Erza...Scarlet) It's the colour of you hair! Nobody will ever forget that!~(Jellal...)

Her skin is the bluish color of skim milk

An ombre ball gown, its colour deepening from white near my throat, through palest blue to deepest indigo at my feet. Over that is stitched the stark outlines of trees, the way I see them from my window as dusk is falling. The seamstress has even sewn on little crystal beads to represent stars. This is a dress I could never have imagined, one so perfect that for a moment, looking at it, I can think of nothing but its beauty.

Her hair falls loose in a cascade of black curls, caught in a crown of magenta bougainvillea.