In your best prose, describe this painting

reminds me of pedro paramo

The painting depicts a room in a small cafe or bar or other place where food is served but the setting is informal and intimate. A pool table dominates the centre of the room while dining tables are arrayed against the walls. People sit in groups at the tables talking with each other. Their costume resembles oriental style but the furniture suggests Western influence. A dark-skinned woman is foregrounded, looking off to the left side of the painting. Her expression is sly, or wryly amused.

The perspective of the work is poor and the use of colour renders the painting drab. It evokes a feeling of quietude, rest, relaxation, and inactivity.

>i just re-read that and it sounds like a randomly-generated artefact description from Dwarf Fortress.

The way Veeky Forums thinks of "prose" reminds me of how characters in Team America think of "acting."

little fat cat under the pool table watching from far away

An unctuous smell approached her nose and she knew directly that Edgar was at it again.

Pretty good.
I am not a native English speaker but I have a weakness for sentences with lots of S sounds like " Amid the sounds of the sleazy chatter, coarse cackles, drunken snores and shrill squeals of the whores in their stained satin dresses she sits"

The room is light by brown. The tables hold the drool. The arms are resting heads. In a room filled by men, on the furthest table she sits alone. And smiles. There are rape vibes in the air. The bottle holds canadian vodka and flunitrazepam that two hours from now will turn a good drink into a bad fuck.

I sipped my absinthe. The wallpaper blossomed into a drab orange and the bar started filling up with transvestite indian chieftains. I was seated in front of one them. He/she/it (whatever the pronoun is) kept refilling my glass while resting her cheek in her palm and staring off at nothing in particular.

"The fuck are you looking at you shemale jerkynigger?", I asked politely.

The other patrons of the bar paid no mind to our sophisticated conversation. Behind my contemporary was a pool table then another table where a trio of chieftains were playing bridge with a 19th century railroad conductor. Opposite them a banker was passed out on a table and his friend, dressed like a Polish cavalryman, was feeling his leg under the table. The whole thing was starting to make me feel squeamish.

Gauguin's poster shows the quaint, parisian cafe in all it's realism and tropes. The cat, the pool table, the passed out man, the ethereal, drifting smoke, and the signature french attention to dress.

Gauguin built a palette of colors reminiscent of the streets of paris at the time, full of brick, stone, and other earth-inspired shades. Indeed, the painting invokes a feeling of presence, as if the tall drink at the bottom center of the painting is your own drink, and the woman giving you that sly look of knowing, is your own friend, or lover. And that the view you see before you and your drink, is your city, your reality. He not only manages to capture the parisian cafe, as a subculture that birthed much of our modern glorification of paris, but he brings the viewer into the painting itself. Yet at the same time the almost cubic features to the furnishings, and the woman's features give distance to what new reality we, as the audience, have been taken into.

I like this, but I think you're overusing the whole "noun-adjective" thing. I have a friend that writes with this a lot and while it's something you can pretty much count on sounding good, putting it in a bunch makes it feel kind of cutesy.

The ruby red walls dimmed with grease and age has a certain charming element to itself. The Rogue Bar was an old staple, a venue notorious for riff raffs and druges all merely passing the time towards the looming end of freedom. A freedom that cleanse's one of the societal obligations, the responsibilities, the headaches, the heartaches, the troublesome woes that growing old gifts you as you become more brittle, more vulnerable, more exposed, and more weak. Tuesdays at the Rogue bring about the aristocratic patrons, dignitaries, lords, diplomats, lawyers, and the occasional politician who creeps up near election time to appease the upper echelons. Today is Friday and I sit with my cohort, Maria, whose cynicism has aged like a fine Merlot, and whose charm and grace has been amplified by the passing of the seasons. We sit in silence basking in the movement drinking gin and tonics reminiscing of the time we were both filled with a vigorous optimism that since has fleeted due to aging. You already died and read this before. This life is all just a re-through

I'm a dumb one who drinks this wine. The men behind me think about the pool table: "Green" they think. I slip into a chain of thought about how my dog is ugly and I cant wake up. The visage of my dog, Browno is his name, it leaves me no peace, I see it as I drink this dumb wine. One bottle down...

Can't tell if man or woman.
Can't see if smoke or shieet.
Can tell it smells.

She had sat in the bar quietly nursing drinks since the bar had been loud in the summer heat of last night, staying in her seat listening to the marvelous din of the drunks and gentlemen. Now the sun was tearing itself away from the horizon and burned through the windows of the bar. Blue smoke curled through the air, cut through by the orange glow, the whole of the establishment was cast in that burnt orange the light took on as it passed through the city’s smog. The man she had met a couple nights ago never showed, she wasn’t necessarily shocked so she wasn’t necessarily sad either, being stood up is somewhat of a necessary evil in love after all. She didn’t bother checking the time to see how long she’d been sitting there. She rested her cheek on her hand and took another look around. Her tired eyes saw men outside walking their way to work and wondered whether or not a place like this served breakfast as well. The veterans of the previous night were scattered around the bar, now too sober or too asleep to talk to the strangers they thought so beautiful the night before. She smiled at her next thought, “They must.”

woof. i feel like i've been beaten in the head with a pretentious stick. also, you made a couple typos.

very good. you're concision goes hand in hand with what you're doing. lack of bravado is refreshing and well suited to analyzing a painting. i'm gonna guess you got a think for art history, which probably means you're a cool dude.

eh. i see what you were going for. if you were actually trying to be funny you failed. if you were just trying to take the piss, you succeeded, but that's still boring and less commendable then just coming at it with sincerity.

the other guy did it better.

without further development, the few sentences you gave here pretty much only communicate: RAND0M!!!1!!!! ;P XD

thanks, i actually don't know much about art history, but i have recently been reading people who do (Knausgaard, Teju Cole), so maybe thats where it comes from.

Before the BrrrrrrrAAAAAAAAAAAAP

i saw this painting at a yard sale a long time ago when i was looking for a painting for my apartment.i didn't like it.the woman appeared too mannish, the lines of her face seemed off, her hand's were too large, her chin faded into her neck and her forehead was much too small with a terribly awkward hairline. i purchased it anyways because it seemed very domestic and therefore would make my apartment appear more lived in. i hung the painting over the sofa facing the door as the wall above it was empty. the first day i returned home to it, tired of the world and those that inhabited as the result of a long day of work and interaction this painting faced me and my eyes were drawn to the stare of the lady and it dawned on me that i was the one she was looking at. i approached nervously. it was an intimate and affectionate expression without the nervous reserve of a new love. she had known me for years, bared my children, and still loved me madly with intimacy, passion, and physicality. i looked away from my new time tested bride out to the unpainted world.

i know this isn't that good it is late.

why? this painting has no business living the life of anonymous prose.

good songs tend to make bad perfumes