Best 8185 quotes in «artist quotes» category

Freedom can choke you if you don't know how to handle it.

Freedom is an existential art.

Freelance' means I can take watermelon breaks and no one can yell at me.

Freedom is the soul of art.

Frowning, Shiloh forced herself to look up at him. Roan deserved her courage, not her cowardice. “You wanted to kiss me.” “I still do.

Funny how we do not realize the true value and legacy of a living icon until they suddenly pass away. Truth is, there are many living legends among us, we just do not stop and take time to notice their worth until it's too late.

General belief is “There is no real magic, only tricks” but a great magician compel people not to trust that belief and make them believe, after all "There does exist a real magic".

Genius is talent set on fire.

Give royal treatment to your original magic effects, because one of the effects might make you the king of magic.

Giving him a wry look, Shiloh said, “I think you’re forcing me to look at myself, what I want, who I am.” “Good relationships always do that for both people, Darlin’. It’s just a natural progression between them. It can bring out our self-awareness. It’s not easy. But it’s rewarding.

God is the world's oldest poet; love is the world's oldest poem.

Great artists play the game to its existential edge.

Haven't I told you scores of times, that you're always beginners, and the greatest satisfaction was not in being at the top, but in getting there, in the enjoyment you get out of scaling the heights? That's something you don't understand, and can't understand until you've gone through it yourself. You're still at the state of unlimited illusions, when a good, strong pair of legs makes the hardest road look short, and you've such a mighty appetite for glory that the tiniest crumb of success tastes delightfully sweet. You're prepared for a feast, you're going to satisfy your ambition at last, you feel it's within reach and you don't care if you give the skin off your back to get it! And then, the heights are scaled, the summits reached, and you've got to stay there. That's when the torture begins; you've drunk your excitement to the dregs and found it all too short and even rather bitter, and you wonder whether it was really worth the struggle. From that point there is no more unknown to explore, no new sensations to experience. Pride has had its brief portion of celebrity; you know that your best has been given and you're surprised it hasn't brought a keener sense of satisfaction. From that moment the horizon starts to empty of all hopes that once attracted you towards it. There's nothing to look forward to but death. But in spite of that you cling on, you don't want to feel you're played out, you persist in trying to produce something, like old men persist in trying to make love, with painful, humiliating results. ... If only we could have the courage to hang ourselves in front of our last masterpiece!

Great artists have wild and untamed reality.

Great philosophy turns your life into a new art form.

He drinks his coffee tentatively, glancing at me every few seconds, watching me. Every time he glances in my direction, I quickly turn away though he obviously knows I'm watching him. I know he's wondering why I'm staring at him, but he doesn't ask. I finally take a sip of coffee, set the mug back on the table, and voice what's on my mind, "I want to draw you.

Having Simultanagnosia (object blindness), Prosopagnosia (face blindness) and Semantic Agnosia (meaning blindness) goes in my favour with regards to abstract art living in world full of fragmented pieces when I draw it is in real time no visual memory means no "pre-formatted" picture in my mind so I go where my hand takes it's like journey that is happening in the moment, hence why I drew these without my lenses on. When I was younger I would draw pictures by "route" which made it a appear that I had a visual memory (cobbling together things out of context and making a contextual image)

He gave us music that reached into the ear like a lover's tongue and changed the color of our feelings. He presented movement so exquisite and fluid it coaxed our souls out of our bodies to dance with him, weightless in the perfume of divinity.

Her life is lived through the masterpiece of art, that she cannot draw.

here it was the whole world wrapped inside my arms And I let it all slip away

Here’s to the “so-so-ing” it. Here’s to the working since I was 14 in a smoke clouded day. Here’s to saying I could stay until the forms were faxed. Here’s to driving home past dark and dozing off the road. Here’s to no over time. Here’s to the long line to management. Here’s to ALREADY DONE THAT! Here’s to quitting, saying I’m through, saying I can’t compete for your leftover lean cuisine. Here’s to art. Here’s to freedom. Here’s to saying God gave me every penny and knowing it’s true. Here’s to the next 40 years with you. Here’s to the new. — Adrianna Stepiano

Here, this is for you," the girl said, holding out one of the pages on which she'd been drawing. "Oh, I... well, thank you." Meg reached out and took the sketch between her fingers. Gazing down, her eyes widened. Instead of the typical childish scribble she'd expected, she discovered two well-rendered figures. The style was a bit loose, and still immature with a tendency to distort the proportions. Even so, it was refined enough enough to have captured remarkably accurate likenesses of her and Cade seated side by side on the sofa. Esme might be only be nine years of age, but already she was an exceptional artist, better than many adults would ever hope to be. "This is... extraordinary," Meg said. "It's you and Cade," the girl offered, clutching a small fist against her yellow wool skirt. "Do you like it?" "I most certainly do. How could I not? You've drawn Cade and me so perfectly. It's beautiful." The girl's oval features came alive with a pleased smile. "Good night, Miss Amberley. I'm glad you're going to be my sister." At a sudden loss for what she knew would never be, Meg settled on the only honest reply she could offer. "Sweet dreams, Esme.

Herbert Bayer was a photographer, an architect, a painter, and he was also the inventor of photo montage, as well as one of the originators—and probably the first modern—land artist. And so it was the idea that an artist could do all of these things using the same basic design concepts, and that it didn’t really matter if he was creating a beautiful land sculpture or if he was using photography or painting. He was really making art using the same methods, the same Bauhaus-type methods.

Her thoughts drifted to Tyler Dunn... to the feeling of being held in his arms. Wistfulness curled through her heart and she wished for the freedom to enjoy the attention of a man... to indulge in a lady-like flirtation... to fall in love. Although the wishes weren't new, for the first time, she had someone to weave the fantasy around. She could easily paint a romantic dream of living here with Tyler. But, Lily knew that dreaming about such a life would only make it harder to live with her reality. Yet, she couldn't help imagining him in the pool like this, naked as a newborn babe, yet all man.

He smiled and squinted at me again, tilting his head up and to the right as he stared. “Maybe what I’m attracted to in you is more than your looks and your brain and your humor.” He leaned closer like he had a secret. “It could be your soul,” he whispered. I pushed his cheek until he was squinting at the door to the kitchen instead. “Is this when you tell me I’m your soul mate, O’Neill?

He smirks, shaking his head and letting his eyes wander. I watch him carefully, wondering what I can say to get him to leave. “I’m not leaving until you answer some questions. Plus, I’m holding your sketchbook hostage, so you might want to cooperate.” I raise an eyebrow at him. I guess there isn’t much I can say. “This isn’t a hostage negotiation.” He chuckles half-heartedly as his eyes take me in, almost sizing me up. “I guess I should introduce myself.” He holds a hand out for me to shake. “I’m Nathan.” I stare at his hand for a moment. “Taylor,” I reply, meeting his eyes again without taking his hand. He lets his hand fall back to his side. “At least I got you to say something non-hostile.” “I haven’t been hostile,” I object. His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, haven’t you?” “Why don’t you leave me alone?” I snap. “Leave and don’t come back.” I move passed him, heading for my apartment. He can’t follow and annoy me if I lock the door. “Where are you going?” he demands. I look back over my shoulder and roll my eyes at him, indicating the answer should be obvious: anywhere he isn’t. Once inside, I slam the door behind me. “That was totally not hostile!” he calls after me, sarcastically. I quickly head for my bedroom door, slamming it, too.

He stares at me—taking me in—with his lips slightly parted. I struggle to hold myself in place as we gawk at each other. I want so desperately to run, but something is holding me back, keeping me in place.

He tasted like chocolate and hazelnut liqueur and she wanted to feast on him for the rest of the night. His kiss… his kiss took her to another place where fireworks blazed.

He was an awkward mixture of strong moral impulse and restless aesthetic curiosity, and yet he would have made a most ineffective reformer and a very indifferent artist. It seemed to him that the glow of happiness must be found either in action, of some immensely solid kind, on behalf of an idea, or in producing a masterpiece in one of the arts.

He traced her arched eyebrow. “Every morning when I wake up with you at my side, you’re more beautiful than yesterday.

He was no god, just an artist; and when an artist is a man, he needs a woman to create like a god.

His mind It says survival of the fittest but His soul Revival of the idiots So good riddance, dancing

I am an artist, and I am a piece of art.

How did Adam do it? He seemed to be able to look past Miles's weirdness and insecurities and awkwardness to see Miles, himself, what he was-whatever he was-inside.

I am an artist, my hair is rarely tamed & sometimes I sleep till noon, My house is messy and I speak to the moon. I care less about the materials that I share with my world and more about the passion inside myself. Im an artist, what more can you expect? i am full of soul, love and all the rest.

I am an artist, and a rebel one at that. I live in the voluptuous dimension of imagination, so if you're expecting normalcy (dullness) from me, sorry to disappoint, but you're quite mistaken. Ordinary is not my best attire, I've tried it and normal just never fit quite right. I will always be the crazy one who believes in magic, unicorns and impossible dreams. But also love, compassion and empathy.

How are his poems?" "He's not as good as he thinks he is, but then most of us feel that way.

Hopper’s paintings are full of women like her; women who appear to be in the grips of a loneliness that has to do with gender and unattainable standards of appearance, and that gets increasingly toxic and strangulating with age.

However my mother had once said, ‘When you go to art school, you’ll find everybody sitting around practicing how to do their signature'; and sure enough, there they were, some of them doing just that.

I am a firm believer that digital imaging has already rivaled the chemical process in its ability to make fine prints. An exceptional digital print, on a fine quality paper, can take on all the delicacy of a masterful photogravure. Each is, after all, ink on paper. The unfortunate thing is that skillful digital fine art photography is being created by so few, and today’s artworld is brimming with hastily made, conceptually oriented, digital bric-a-brac.

I am a child. I'm an independent. They can not mock me for two things they are not. They blame me, especially your family. They do not know what is in the artist's nature. Let me live like this for some time. I continue along my path. I have a goal. I will prove to you that I am right. I am a great artist, I know that. That's why I endure so much suffering to follow my calling. Otherwise I would feel like a villain. There will come a day when our children can face anyone... with their father's name to protect and honor.

I am an Entertainer, I don’t feel anything wrong in any of demanding scene as per the script, I cook to serve for people, Not to eat ourselves!

I am living a simple life with a complicated mind and I have yet to find a state of mind where I feel safe with who I am, where I am, with what I do.

I am not an actress. I am a mistress of disguise. Acting happens to be one of the perks

I am not a neurotic!" "You're trembling with nerves and sensibility—" "Of course I am, I'm an artist!

I am the eye that beholds... And I am the dreamer that paints the stars in the night sky... For I am the one they call artist, and you call Love.

I am happiest sitting against a tree, with my notebook or sketchpad on my knee, capturing the moment.

I am no one's to be claimed, I belong to me.

I am not a finished poem, and I am not the song you’ve turned me into. I am a detached human being, making my way in a world that is constantly trying to push me aside, and you who send me letters and emails and beautiful gifts wouldn’t even recognise me if you saw me walking down the street where I live tomorrow for I am not a poem. I am tired and worn out and the eyes you would see would not be painted or inspired but empty and weary from drinking too much at all times and I am not the life of your party who sings and has glorious words to speak for I don’t speak much at all and my voice is raspy and unsteady from unhealthy living and not much sleep and I only use it when I sing and I always sing too much or not at all and never when people are around because they expect poems and symphonies and I am not a poem but an elegy at my best but unedited and uncut and not a lot of people want to work with me because there’s only so much you can do with an audio take, with the plug-ins and EQs and I was born distorted, disordered, and I’m pretty fine with that, but others are not.

I am shedding. I am not a new me. I am my old me in my new me. I remain, carved with the soul of my knife. My mess scattered all over my countenance. I am me. Take me as I am.