The macaroons are especially nice to look at because they are sorted by colour. Good colours, too, lilac and baby blue, mint green and pastel pink. Good colours.
(Darcy Hill, ‘Disjointed words’, Southerly 76.2)
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.
…where anxiety and dysmorphia thrived symbiotically with the serried ranks of beauticians, cosmeticians, chemists, and the nail salons, whose bright windows presented a kind of colonialist tableau: small, deft Asian women working tirelessly on the long white feet of their blonde customers, painting and burnishing their pink toenails up to a violent and barbarous red…
(Elias Greig, ‘The whale ghosts’, Contrappasso)
At the National Press Club in Washington, D. C., it was Imelda’s eye-catching black and white pearl earrings and brooch, at the Metropolitan Opera House opening, a white-over-pink terno (a Filipino national dress); at breakfast with Cardinal Spellman, a stunning polka-dotted gown.
(Carmen Navarro Pedrosa, The Rise and Fall of Imelda Marcos, Prologue)
Mrs Andrews, herself from a rich textile family of Huguenot origin, sits wearing a rustic shepherdess-style hat, while her dainty feet in pink satin slippers confirm her social position.
(Adam Stoneman, ‘The new conspicuous consumption’, Jacobin, 8 June 2015)
‘Pink!’ he says, surprised at the colour
his canvas has become.
(Lea McInerney, ‘Studio by the sea, Falmouth’, Southerly 74.3)
I stood there, shocked by the overall pinkness of my older brother’s nakedness, transfixed by the little pink prick and balls that popped out, like a soft little featherless bird from a human cuckoo clock.
(Philomena van Rijswijk, ‘The boy who couldn’t see colours’, Southerly 74.2)