Sentences with phrase «crackle polish»

That I haven't used in awhile like the feather polish and my crackle polish.

Worn Shirt: J.Crew, skirt: I.N.C. via Macy's, brown tights: Spanx, shoes: B. Makowsky via TJ Maxx, necklace: LOFT, nail polish: Sally Hansen Crackle polish via Target.

I also finally picked up some of that fun crackle polish that's popping up everywhere right now.

Crackle polish is unpredictable sometimes, and though that's the one thing I love about crackle polish, I really didn't think it would cover up most of my nail.

I mean, I like the look in general; I always get compliments on crackle polish whenever I wear one out, and I like how unpredictable it is and how two nails never look exactly the same.

For Manicure Monday this week, I pulled out a crackle polish that had been languishing in the collection.

I know we've seen crackle polishes on the blog before, and each time I'm always conflicted about wearing one; it's something between «Man, this is super cool» and «Dude, what was I thinking?»

Remember crackle polishes?

Not exact matches

Then I did one coat of Nicole by OPI Gold Texture Polish which I didn't realize was crackle nail polish until it DRIED and I was left with a surPolish which I didn't realize was crackle nail polish until it DRIED and I was left with a surpolish until it DRIED and I was left with a surprise!

The top coat nail polish in flat black dries to a crackled and separated finish that has a 3D texture to it.

I've found that with these shatter and crackle nail polish lacquers, that people either love em» or they hate em».

Today I dug out an old polish, one of my first - ever China Glazes and one that crackles, no less.

Green polish, gray polish, and white crackle.

This month I tried out blue crackle nail polish.

In other news, I tried the Sally Hansen Crackle nail polish overcoat and it works WONDERFULLY!

That, however, is neither here nor there: Sean Baker's film crackles with immediacy, the professionalism of its aesthetic polish melding perfectly with the rawness of its DIY ethic.

Take the roof off and GranCabrio reveals itself as a true open sportscar, the exhaust an orchestra of sound from its polished dual oval outlets with an intoxicating burble on overrun and crisp crackle on downshifts, an aural pleasure that makes you want to swap cogs over and again, just to hear the noise.

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,