Paint With Words Not Colors

Standing on the porch, she was beyond puce-incandescent, like a kind of eating room red! Her smoked trout top contrasting with her complexion in the pale evening light, fast fading now.

Her younger brother was left inside. The large archive door, solid behind her. Blocking him out of her world. Churlish green and babouch, he could stay beyond the wooden barrier that served as an entrance to the large hall interior.

It was colored in a St Giles blue- intended to calm, to sooth. Well it had failed in the task it had been given. Patently.

It would be thirty minutes until the brassica handle would turn and Jessica would let herself in to face Nancy’s Blushes

By way of an explanation; at the writing group I belong to, there was an interesting take on things recently. When I walked in there were, on the table in the middle of the room, a pile of garish cloths.blind  I thought the group would be presented with an exercise on texture, or maybe ‘How a blind person would interpret this’. Next to the cloths was a stack of paint pots. My curiosity was piqued.

As I sat down I picked up the tin of paint nearest me. It was from a company called Farrow and Ball.

Farrow and Ball have the most amazing names for colors, words you would not associate with color. If you go here you can have a browse.

I found;

Eatingroom Red




Churlish Green


St Giles Blue

Drawingroom Blue



Smoked Trout



Pink Ground

Setting plaster

Nancy’s Blushes

Charlotte’s Locks


Some wonderful evocative words there. The task was to create prose or poetry using the names of paint.

And with a slightly darker feel;

Standing still, motionless, barely breathing, Jessica looked at her reflection. A drawn, baleful woman looked back at her from the Brassica framed, ornate, full length mirror.She gazed down. Two tiny feet, worn Blazer Red from the hard unforgiving court shoes. Her anemic calves above them, like Setting Plaster.

Around an emaciated torso was pulled a Dayroom Yellow scarf, pulled tight, to accentuate a non existent, sometimes boyish, waist.

Her shoulders were drooped now, The Pelt draped across them feeling heavy, like the years stretching behind her into a forgotten Mist. The Pelt grew heavier now as her eyes met her eyes. Churlish green looking at Churlish Green. And she saw them fill. Knowing this tall room would be the last thing they would look upon.

Her left hand, Alabaster now, now the grip was relinquishing, slowly curled open. Exposing her limited future within the confines of her small, sweaty Ivory palm.

Give it a try and see if it helps with the dreaded writers block. I’d love to know how you get on.

Photo by Tim Arterbury on Unsplash


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