Best 174 quotes in «painter quotes» category

Eyes speak. Eyes say the unsaid words. Eyes express feelings. Eyes convey emotions. Eyes are eloquent. Eyes are tender. Eyes are sensitive. Eyes are captivating. I can't help looking into eyes. I am always fascinated by eyes. If I were a painter then I would love to paint the eyes of the people I meet and come across.

Finally, when someone asked [Pollack] how he knew when a painting was finished, he replied, “How do you know when you’ve finished making love?

For me, a paint brush is the only tool I use extensively in my works, to push paint on canvas and conduct melodies. And that's exactly what Garden Avenue is, and all of my projects after that.

He was still on his “two Van Goghs” point. He put his hand on the armrest of her chair. He said, “But the second Van Gogh is just a guy named Vincent. Vincent lived for thirty-seven years. Van Gogh only came to life after Vincent died. Same man, two people.

He wasn’t a good person, but I painted him to be and since I painted it, I believed it.

I became an artist because I wanted to be an active participant in the conversation about art.

I am the Constellation of my own

I have a lot of, unfinished poems. And all of them are like, some love affair, that started too quick, and died too young. Each incomplete art to me, is like a memory lane, of an insane passion, that words, couldn't explain, and colors couldn't contain.

I hate people who collect things and classify things and give them names and then forget all about them. That’s what people are always doing in art. They call a painter an impressionist or a cubist or something and then they put him in a drawer and don’t see him as a living individual painter any more.

I have loved enough women to know how to paint. If I had loved fewer, I would be an illustrator; if I had loved more, I would be a poet.

It was a tribute to Raphael that lesser artists wanted to copy his work, but this… this was a travesty. The fresco consisted of Galatea’s apotheosis, wherein she is surrounded by mythical creatures. A beautiful scene, with all the potential in the world, but very poorly executed here. Galatea herself looked vapid and empty. The rest of the painting indicated pure ignorance on the part of the painter. I shook my head in confusion. The giant Polyphemus was depicted with two normal eyes, when clearly he ought to have but one. Triton, for his horn, was using not a shell but an actual trumpet of brass. I nearly laughed aloud at that observation; would not such an instrument be completely destroyed by seawater? Who the devil had painted this monstrosity?

I love to draw—pencil, ink pen—I love art. When I go on tour and visit museums in Holland, Germany or England—you know those huge paintings?—I’m just amazed. You don’t think a painter could do something like that. I can look at a piece of sculpture or a painting and totally lose myself in it.

In many times, after creating a piece of work I want to stand up and applaud.

Impression — I was certain of it. I was just telling myself that, since I was impressed, there had to be some impression in it … and what freedom, what ease of workmanship! Wallpaper in its embryonic state is more finished than that seascape.

i painted it because i dreamed it because we all dreamed it

They were both young men under thirty. Art is not so precocious as literature, and does not send quite so many early potatoes into the market, so that the age of thirty is considered young enough for a painter to have learnt his business sufficiently to be marketable from the picture-dealing point of view. ("The Phantom Model")

Look at this one.” I picked up a small painting of a man with dark hair and a short, dark beard. He wore a loose shirt, cobalt blue, unbuttoned at the top, showing a prominent, knobby collarbone. He looked…complicated and hungry. She’d captured him focused intensely on a book, his face pressed against a wall like he was resting. Or waiting.

Now is not the time for bigots and racists. No time for sexists and homophobes. Now, more than ever, is the time for ARTISTS. It’s time for us to rise above and to create. To show humanity. To spread hope. We must prevent society from destroying itself, from losing its way. Now is the time for love.

Our jobs determine what we deem more important: a painter is likely to claim that he or she would rather be deaf than be blind, whereas a singer is likely to claim the opposite.

She only modelled for him once,' Max said stubbornly, leaning the canvases back against the wall and replacing the sheet. 'Once, twice or umpteen times, it's proof she knew Spataro... how shall we put it?... on terms a man who loved her might resent.' 'There are lots of artists in Montparnasse, Appelby, and lots of artists' models.' 'I wouldn't like it. And I bet Sir Henry didn't like it either.' 'There was nothing between Corinne and Spataro.' 'That's the problem, isn't it?' Appelby pointed with the stem of his pipe at the shrouded paintings. 'There may have been *literally* nothing between them.

The search for this inner truth is the search for beauty. People whose vision does not penetrate beyond the narrow limits of the commonplace, and to whom a cabbage is but a vulgar vegetable, are surprised if they see a beautiful picture painted of one, and say that the artist has idealised it, meaning that he has consciously altered its appearance on some idealistic formula; whereas he has probably only honestly given expression to a truer, deeper vision than they had been aware of. The commonplace is not the true, but only the shallow, view of things. [...] Our moments of peace are, I think, always associated with some form of beauty, of this spark of harmony within corresponding with some infinite source without. [...]. In moments of beauty (for beauty is, strictly speaking, a state of mind rather than an attribute of certain objects [...]) we seem to get a glimpse of this deeper truth behind the things of sense. And who can say but that this sense, dull enough in most of us, is not an echo of a greater harmony existing somewhere the other side of things, that we dimly feel through them, evasive though it is

Usually, a "great painter" is a dead painter.

To live is to paint, it is to create; but while we are painting, we are being painted, being created as well!

Use your blood to paint. Keep painting until you faint. Keep painting until you die.

We made love again. This time it was me who asked. Lying there again, on the bed, this time with heat, almost an oven heat, coming through the screen, and sweat instead of tears, I wondered how simple we really are. That we can do the same things again and again and again and find them interesting, even fascinating and seek the repetition with a hunger as avid. How fishing was like that, and painting.

You too know that all my eyes see, all I touch with myself, from any distance, is Diego. The caress of fabrics, the color of colors, the wires, the nerves, the pencils, the leaves, the dust, the cells, the war and the sun, everything experienced in the minutes of the non-clocks and the non-calendars and the empty non-glances, is him.

why do you paint in the dark' i ask him and he looks not at me but away 'because i cannot bear my own darkness in the light' he is quiet for some time 'but inwardly i am told where there is paint to be and i paint it there in the dark so none can see myself truly burning in the sun

Write the masterpiece that has not been written. Sing the masterpiece that has not been sung. Paint the masterpiece that has not been painted. Create the masterpiece that has not been created.

Anybody who perceives colors can become a painter. It's simply a question of whether or not one has felt anything and whether one has the courage to recount the things one has felt.

[Alexander] Hamilton estimated portrait painters as thieves of time.

A painter can hang his pictures, but a writer can only hang himself.

A painter is a choreographer of space.

A painter can turn pennies into gold, for all subjects are capable of being transformed into poems.

A painter paints to unload himself of feelings and visions.

A painter's tastes must grow out of what so obsesses him in life that he never has to ask himself what it is suitable for him to do in art.

As a painter, taking photos is a form of shorthand - note-taking.

A poet is a painter of the soul.

Art is art. Everything else is everything else.

Art is something someone made. It's a product of human endeavor. As such, it's not that different from having a conversation with someone. The painter is telling us something. Just, how do they - what's their syntax? What's their inflection?

As a painter I make up projects for myself to express myself. And there's no client, there's no direction.

A thousand painters ought to be killed yearly. Say what you like: I'm every inch a painter.

As the beauty of the picture depends not on the painter but on the picture itself, what I say must depend on its own intrinsic value and not on the authority of my attainment, nor on the authority of others.

Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.

A writer or painter cannot change the world. But they can keep an essential margin of nonconformity alive.

Dali was the great painter then and surrealism was a way of life.

Concision in art is a necessity and an elegance. The verbose painter bores: who will get rid of all these trimmings?

Every man is the painter and the sculptor of his own life.

Even monarchs have need of authors, and fear their pens more than ugly women the painter's pencil.

Fashion wasn't what you wore someplace anymore; it was the whole reason for going.

Every top player has his own style, just as every painter has his own personal signature.