Umber

Quote

Love the battle between chaos and imagination. Remember: Acting is living truthfully in imaginary circumstances. Remember: Acting is the way to live the greatest number of lives. Remember: Acting is the same as real life, lived intentionally. Never forget: The Fruit is out on the end of the limb. Go there. "Alice-Alice" in Third Wish (2006)

Source: Robert Fulghum

In the next 25 years, the human race will have to decide whether or not to preserve the bestiary of Nature’s living masterpieces. Ashes and Snow is not meant to tell people to do some things and not to do other things. It’s meant to inspire. I hope it’s not a requiem. As quoted in "Epiphanies in Sepia and Umber" by Matthew Gurewitsch, in The Wall Street Journal, (15 March 2005)

Source: Gregory Colbert

…I was singing on the sort of the flat, lower part of my voice. I didn't have all the color and the breath and the sort of airy halo that comes. There's a lot of different textures that you can dial in and out on an unconscious level when you're singing. And you just bring in these colors and textures, and they all express emotion in some way or another. And I didn't have that with me. I was - I thought of myself as a painter that was painting with a limited palette, so I thought, well, I got some darks and lights here. And I've got some maybe some umber, you know? And I can put that in, and I just have to make a really strong drawing, make the image as bold as I can. And that's what I was trying to do with this song. On how she initially coped with singing after her Parkinson’s diagnosis in “Linda Ronstadt On Making Music: 'I Knew How To Sing My Whole Life'” in NPR (2019 Sep 13)

Source: Linda Ronstadt

I'd kinda figured that the number 18 would cast light into the deep dark chasm of my soul and reveal some grand truth about the universe. Like the meaning of life, or at least some explanation as to why all the guys are complete idiots.

Source: The Longest Journey

There must be cubicles like this all over the ETO: only the three dingy scuffed-cream fiberboard walls and no ceiling of its own. Tantivy shares it with an American colleague, Lt. Tyrone Slothrop. Their desks are at right angles, so there’s no eye contact but by squeaking around some 90 degrees. Tantivy’s desk is neat, Slothrop’s is a godawful mess. It hasn’t been cleaned down to the original wood surface since 1942. Things have fallen roughly into layers, over a base of bureaucratic smegma that sifts steadily to the bottom, made up of millions of tiny red and brown curls of rubber eraser, pencil shavings, dried tea or coffee stains, traces of sugar and Household Milk, much cigarette ash, very fine black debris picked and flung from typewriter ribbons, decomposing library paste, broken aspirins ground to powder. Then comes a scatter of paperclips, Zippo flints, rubber bands, staples, cigarette butts and crumpled packs, stray matches, pins, nubs of pens, stubs of pencils of all colors including the hard-to-get heliotrope and raw umber, wooden coffee spoons, Thayer’s Slippery Elm Throat Lozenges sent by Slothrop’s mother, Nalline, all the way from Massachusetts, bits of tape, string, chalk… above that a layer of forgotten memoranda, empty buff ration books, phone numbers, unanswered letters, tattered sheets of carbon paper, the scribbled ukelele chords to a dozen songs including “Johnny Doughboy Found a Rose is Ireland” (“He does have some rather snappy arrangements,” Tantivy reports, “he’s a sort of American George Formby, if you can imagine such a thing,” but Bloat’s decided he’d rather not), an empty Kreml hair tonic bottle, lost pieces to different jigsaw puzzles showing parts of the amber left eye of a Weimaraner, the green velvet folds of a gown, slate-blue veining in a distant cloud, the orange nimbus of an explosion (perhaps a sunset), rivets in the skin of a Flying Fortress, the pink inner thigh of a pouting pin-up girl… a few old Weekly Intelligence Summaries from G-2, a busted corkscrewing ukelele string, boxes of gummed paper stars in many colors, pieces of a flashlight, top to a Nugget shoe polish can in which Slothrop now and then studies his blurry brass reflection, any number of reference books out of the ACHTUNG library back down the hall -- a dictionary of technical German, an F.O. Special Handbook or Town Plan -- and usually, unless it’s been pinched or thrown away, a News of the World somewhere too -- Slothrop’s a faithful reader.

Source: Gravity's Rainbow

Who owns the North? [Bolton soldiers: We do!] Who owns the North?! [Bolton soldiers: We do!] Show me! Who: Lord 'Smalljon' Umber Source: Episode 6x9 "Battle of the Bastards" Note: Character is participating in the battle of Winterfell, leading his troops directly. In the middle of the engagement as Jon Snow's forces are increasingly hemmed in, character shouts the above to his soldiers as a rallying cry before charging into the remnants of the Stark-Wildling forces over a mound of corpses. As the Bolton spearmen close in on the trapped ranks of Snow's forces, character engages Tormund Giantsbane in physical combat, initially beating him into submission before a second wind allows him to bite into character's throat and stab him to death.

Source: Last words in Game of Thrones media

I work like a gang of slaves; the day seems five months long. My wish to make a winter landscape has become a fixed idea. I want to do a sheep picture and have all sorts of projects in my head. If you could see how beautiful the forest is! I rush there at the end of the day, after my work, and I come back every time crushed. It is so calm, such a terrible grandeur, that I find myself really frightened. I don't know what those fellows, the trees, are saying to each other.. ..we don't know their language, that is all; but I am quite sure of this - they do not make puns!.. ..Send [me] 3 burnt sienna, 2 raw ditto, 3 Naples's yellow, 1 burnt Italian earth, 2 yellow ocher, 2 burnt umber, 1 bottle of raw oil. Quote of Millet, in his letter from Barbizon, c. 1850 to fr:Alfred_Sensier in Paris; as cited by Arthur Hoeber in The Barbizon Painters – being the story of the Men of thirty – associate of the National Academy of Design; publishers, Frederick A. Stokes Company, New York 1915, p. 38 In 1850 Millet entered into an arrangement with Alfred Sensier, who provided him with materials and money in return for drawings and paintings (source: Murphy, Alexandra R. Jean-François Millet. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 1984, p. xix), see: Wikipedia, Millet

Source: Jean-François Millet