He was large, in the chest and the face and the elbows of his cheekbones shone blasted pink. Two thin sheaves of white hair swept up from his temples to his bare skull and wrapped it.
(Jack Cox, Dodge Rose)
I can’t recall when I first saw the picture of Mathinna in colour, but I had imagined that her dress was pink. In fact it is red. The redness seems now to be somehow very significant. I recall my mother telling me that it was actually right to put red shoes on little girls, but wrong to put red shoes on little boys. In fact I really expected Mathinna should have been wearing a white dress. I would have given her a white dress, I thought. Did somebody agonise over the colour? Or was it just that there was a handy piece of red cloth?
(Carmel Bird, ‘Mathinna’)
Catherine carefully opens the note, then she opens her pencil case, takes out a pen with a pink feather on the end of it, and slowly writes something on the back of the note. Marlo has a face on her. Catherine gives the note to Marlo, whose face goes redder.
(Honni van Rijswijk, ‘The pointy finger of God’, Southerly 77.1)
Scene: a tall, erect man, aged 60, is walking up a long gravel driveway. He is impeccably, incongruously dressed for the country surroundings: dark blue suit and tie, rose-pink shirt, dress shoes. It is the Go-Betweens’ Robert Forster.
(Andrew Stafford, ‛The Go-Betweens: Right Here doco shows old wounds remain close to the surface’, Sydney Morning Herald 20 Sep. 2017)
She loved to read poetry and when she got a keepsake from Bertha Supple of that lovely confession album with the coralpink cover to write her thoughts in she laid it in the drawer of her toilettable which, though it did not err on the side of luxury, was scrupulously neat and clean. It was there she kept her girlish treasures trove, the tortoiseshell combs, her child of Mary badge, the whiterose scent, the eyebrowleine, her alabaster pouncetbox and the ribbons to change when her things came home from the wash and there were some beautiful thoughts written in it in violet ink that she bought in Hely’s of Dame Street for she felt that she too could write poetry if she could only express herself like that poem that appealed to her so deeply that she had copied out of the newspaper she found one evening round the potherbs.