Best 22487 quotes in «art quotes» category

Living in new shapes, reshapes our thinking

Living is art. Breathing and heart beating is music. Seeing is painting the world with our eyes. Touching is sculpting the shape of everything. Life is the most intense art of all.

Loan me a canvas and I will let down my guard. Loan me a paintbrush and I will reach into my soul. Loan me jars full of colors and I will submerge in a sea of possibilities. Loan me the time and you will see infinite versions of my being re-born.

Lo, Elliott was an artist. No crucible of hardship, no spiritual calling. Art was just something he was good at, therefore something he was praised for, therefore something he kept doing.

Logically, I know divinity's just an illusion, but sometimes it seems the divine does manifest itself through art. Maybe there's a spark of the divine in all artists?

Lo descubrí hace mucho al observar en el piso una tabla de madera, colocarle una hoja encima y tallar hasta que el grano de madera se convierta en la superficie del mar. Vi los nudos y quise conservar lo que me decía la madera, su paisaje, su poesía entrañable, su sexo.

Living without art is an eternal regret. Look up for art, as if you are looking for gold and silver.

LIVING your life and NOT acting it is the true art.

Long before being artists, we are artisans; and all fabrication, however rudimentary, lives on likeness and repetition, like the natural geometry which serves as its fulcrum. Fabrication works on models which it sets out to reproduce; and even when it invents, it proceeds, or imagines itself to proceed, by a new arrangement of elements already known. Its principle is that “we must have like to produce like.” In short, the strict application of the principle of finality, like that of the principle of mechanical causality, leads to the conclusion that “all is given.” Both principles say the same thing in their respective languages, because they respond to the same need.

Long before something happens in our life, it happened in our heart.

Look at that magic. Light mattered to Monet, to Cezanne, to Manet, and now Matisse is moving into almost flat color, and everyone is following. And Picasso? He doesn't care about light at all. But you can't have beauty without light, and beauty is the only worthwhile quest. Don't lose your way trying to become popular.

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.

Look at this charming donkey!

Look for the clutter in your writing and prune it ruthlessly. Be grateful for everything you can throw away. Reexamine each sentence you put on paper. Is every word doing new work? Can any thought be expressed with more economy? Is anything pompous or pretentious or faddish? Are you hanging on to something useless just because you think it’s beautiful? Simplify, simplify.

Look man, we'd probably most of us agree that these are dark times, and stupid ones, but do we need fiction that does nothing but dramatize how dark and stupid everything is? In dark times, the definition of good art would seem to be art that locates and applies CPR to those elements of what's human and magical that still live and glow despite the times' darkness. Really good fiction could have as dark a worldview as it wished, but it'd find a way both to depict this world and to illuminate the possibilities for being alive and human in it.

Look, Miranda, he said, those twenty long years that lie between you and me. I've more knowledge of life than you, I've lived more and betrayed more and seen more betrayed. At your age one is bursting with ideals. You think that because I can sometimes see what's trivial and what's important in art that I ought to be more virtuous. But I don't want to be virtuous. My charm (if there is any) for you is simply frankness. And experience. Not goodness. I'm not a good man. Perhaps morally I'm younger even than you are. Can you understand that?

Look, I don't see why bad artists - I mean artists who are obviously incompetent... - why they should be presented hypocritically as good artists just because they're supposed to be advancing the frontiers of freedom of expression or... ...demonstrating that there should be no limit on subject matter.

Looking at things is never time wasted. If your children want to stand and stare, let them. When I was marvelling at the beauty of a painting or enjoying a great view it did not occur to me that the experience, however intense, would be of value many years later. But there it has remained, tucked away in hidden bits of my mind and now it comes, shouldering aside even the most passionate love affairs.

Looking at a painting of an artist who has already died, is kind of mystical magic that touches the soul. It is like looking at a star at night, that died centuries ago, even though you're still in their light.

Looking toward the Polish Rider she met his calm tender gentle thoughtful gaze. She thought, what he sees is the face of death. He sees the silence of the valley, its emptiness, its innocence — and beyond it the hideous field of war on which he will die. And his poor horse will die too. He is courage, he is love, he loves what is good, and will die for it, his body will be trampled by horses' hooves, and no one will know his grave. She thought, he is so beautiful, he has the beauty of goodness.

Look into yourself with your own eyes. Self-realisation is an art of knowing yourself and making oneself better with each new realisation about self.

Look within - there is no end!

loose tendons; dance world's loss; performance art's gain

Look!” The Khwaja nudged a sleepy Bizhad. What was white before sparkled with a fine glaze of crimson, smearing the ashen tents that housed soldiers and animals inside the fort’s walls, lighting up the city of palaces and mosques, casting a halo over the silent fountains and the imperial boat. One by one, the great doorways of the fort gleamed like mirrors, reflecting the sun, now a spear’s length over the horizon. Marble palaces breathed free of the crisscrossing beams, managing to stand aloof from common homes. The intruder, satisfied by the result, turned an effortless gold – a gold coin floating on the river, at its still centre. A bird called, flew across, reflecting the world on its tiny wings – the lapis sky, the turquoise river, the crimson fort and the golden sun. “Look!” The Khwaja whispered into Bizhad’s ear, tracing its flight with his raised finger. “The finest artist in all Agra!” And so on Saturday the twenty-seventh of Rabi, year 975 of the Hegira, 1568 of the Christian era, the sun lit imperial Agra, blessing every moment and delighting every one of its subjects. It rose for the ten thousandth time since that dawn when Babur, the Mughal invader, had woken after a restful night to find himself the conqueror of Hindustan. Under the western wall of the fort, his grandson, the emperor, was about to rise. Rise and begin his favorite sport – racing elephants when they are in their frightening best. In heat.

Los mejores errores de mi vida los plasme en mis obras de arte.

Lord, you seek pleasure in us as we seek to find pleasure in you instead of pleasure seeking in this world, we pleasure in Truth. Certified bondage at birth, it's Lazarus scenario of thirst. The rich in power ignoring the cries of the poor, oppressed in poverty but the tables will soon turn and it will be the rich man what'll cry out to me.

Love & Art are meant to be done passionately. Loving with no passion is like a body without soul, And an Art with no passion can never elevate soul to a great thing.

Love does the job. travelling too. writing does it. music. Also art, whisky, dark-coloured flowers and watching the landscape change in October. Driving on a small road somewhere in Italy with a beautiful boy and I don’t want to be anywhere else in the whole wide world than right there, with him, that very car, smiling. But I close my eyes for one second and the moment is gone. I’m back to getting high on empty roads somewhere in Sweden and I’m the loneliest girl in the whole damn world and I just want all things beautiful. I just want the music, the literature, the art and the moments of driving in a car with a beautiful boy in Italy. but here, alone, I have no cares in the world. I have no cares in the world. I just want it all to be beautiful.

Love. I'm not capable of it, can't even approach it from the side, let alone head-on. Nor am I alone in this—everyone is like this, the liars. Singing songs and painting pictures and telling each other stories about love and its mysteries and marvelous properties, myths to keep morale up—maybe one day it'll materialize. But I can say it ten times a day, a hundred times, 'I love you,' to anyone and anything, to a woman, to a pair of pruning shears. I've said it without meaning it at all, taken love's name in vain and gone dismally unpunished. Love will never be real, or if it is, it has no power. No power. There's only covetousness, and if what we covet can't be won with gentle words—and often it can't—then there is force.

Love, inspirational, life, humor, philosophy, truth, wisdom, happiness, god, hope, romance, death, inspirational-quotes, quotes, faith, poetry,writing, inspiration, knowledge Religion, education, success, relationships, funny, science, life-lessons, books, motivational, spirituality, dreams, fear, freedom, intelligence, friendship, humour, war, motivation, time, women, beauty, reading, art, politics, Christianity, soul, leadership, pain, change, history, people, marriage, nature, peace, music, heart, self-help, spiritual

Love is an art and this love lacks artists.

Love is artists' foremost muse.

Love is an art, Berk. Just like painting or music. Some painters draw mere lines, scratches on the canvas and call them art; some paint stars studded skies like van Gogh; or Chopin’s music conquers the hearts of millions while the execrable disco music blaring out of the open windows of a car have also their audience. Some describe love in high-flown flowery language and you identify yourself with the hero and the heroine and feel yourself in the seventh heaven while some give such a lamentable picture of it that you almost curse it!

Love is the seeking of a way of life. A way that cannot be sought alone. Poetry is the residence of all spiritual and physical things. Love is the transmitting of the acceptances of the things we find whilst we seek. Poetry is the blending of both love and art. Love is the giving of life, it is not charity, which is the giving of things. Poetry is the giving of self, it is the taking and giving of beauty. When combined, love and poetry colludes to turn on the light of our inner folds, done so with the appointed awareness of being in the presence of Source.

Love is often just an act of pretending that it exists.

...love of art—be it poetry, storytelling, painting, sculpture, or music—enables people to transcend any barriers man has yet devised.

Love is wind for the soul

Lulit had bemoaned the fact that, despite the three Ivy League degrees between us, it still came down to the length of our skirts, but we’d stuck to our mantra—Go. Sell. Art. To rich white men—and sold out our entire booth at the fair.

Luggage and guests did not travel together ... in fact, luggage went by a different route, so suitcases could be distributed to guest rooms before they arrived

lying on marble the lazy cat gazes at dying stars

Lyotard develops and extends Weber's argument regarding the disenchantment of art to suggest the Western culture increasingly obeys an instrumental logic of performance and control, one that imposes order on the free play of the imagination and subordinates creative thought to the demands of the capitalist market. And, for Lyotard, the effects of this process are consistent with those outlined in Weber's work, namely the progressive elimination of ritual or religious forms of art, the restriction of creative forms by an instrumental (capitalist) rationality, and with this the denigration of value-rational artistic practice.

... Lyotard suggests that while discourse operates as a system of representation which defines meanings according to their relation to other concepts in that system, figure is the realm of the singular, of that which refuses to, or simply cannot, be captured and systematized by the concept.

Magic is logic.

Make art and live simply.

Makebelieve is a writer's best friend.

Lucas continued, speaking pensively in a dreamy tone, "The painters, you know, the painters, what they did for Christianity!

LYNDA (TO TINY): Look forward to the moment when it falls apart. Look forward to the moment when you must rearrange your heart. It might feel like the end of the world- but it's the beginning of your art.

Magic is not just for the entertainment, but to inspire people to be creative enough with their lives.

Magic is the stunning art of surprising your audience, so that nothing else surprises them.

Make beauty from pain - there's a kind of joy in that; and maybe that's what art is for?