Best 22487 quotes in «art quotes» category

Every book has to wait for the right time to be read and understood.

Every child has known God, Not the God of names, Not the God of don'ts, Not the God who ever does Anything weird, But the God who knows only 4 words And keeps repeating them, saying: "Come Dance with Me." Come Dance.

…Every day I discover even more beautiful things. It is intoxicating me, and I want to paint it all - my head is bursting…

Every creative act involves... a new innocence of perception, liberated from the cataract of accepted belief.

Everyday objects shriek aloud.

Every emotion, every phrase or sentence, every bit of human action, can be a form of art. Art is not necessarily bound to the stereotypical notions of the human society. Art can come in the form of a little sentence, art can come in the form of a simple brush-stroke, art can come in the form of an everyday snapshot, art can come in the form of a plain strumming on the fret of an old guitar. Art doesn't require definition, and more importantly, art cannot be bound by the descriptions of words, yet words themselves can form the most rejuvenating and liberating form of art.

Every gesture and every look he gives me takes me by surprise and causes my heart to stutter.

every good artist paints what he is

Every human is unique every spirit is engaging.

Every man whose tastes have been allowed to develop in wrong directions, or in whom the best tastes have failed of higher perfection, loses thereby from the inner joy and outer value of his whole life. Every good taste is a source and guarantee of happy healthy hours and days, and thus of the enrichment and elevation of life. A reasonable capacity to appreciate music and art quite suffices to enrich life and exercise a wholesome influence upon character. The taste for good reading is inseparable from a taste for good thinking.

Every night I used to pray that I’d find my people, and finally I did on the open road. We had nothing to lose, nothing to gain, nothing we desired anymore, except to make our lives into a work of art.

Every morning when I wake up, I experience an exquisite joy —the joy of being Salvador Dalí— and I ask myself in rapture: What wonderful things is this Salvador Dalí going to accomplish today?

Everyone is a blank canvas, waiting to be filled with the colour of discovery.

Everyone likes everything nowadays. They like the television and the phonograph and the shampoo and the soda pop and the Cracker Jack. Everything becomes everything else and it's all nice and pretty and LIKABLE. Everything is fun in the sun! Where's the discernment? Where's the arbitration that separates what I LIKE from what I RESPECT, what I deem WORTHY, what has... listen to me now... SIGNIFICANCE.

Everyone sings about art. I am the art. People write out of obligation. I write to illuminate my art.

[…] Everyone tries to make his life a work of art. We want love to last and we know that it does not last; even if, by some miracle, it were to last a whole lifetime, it would still be incomplete. Perhaps, in this insatiable need for perpetuation, we should better understand human suffering, if we knew that it was eternal. It appears that great minds are, sometimes, less horrified by suffering than by the fact that it does not endure. In default of inexhaustible happiness, eternal suffering would at least give us a destiny. But we do not even have that consolation, and our worst agonies come to an end one day. One morning, after many dark nights of despair, an irrepressible longing to live will announce to us the fact that all is finished and that suffering has no more meaning than happiness.

Every page should explode, either because of its staggering absurdity, the enthusiasm of its principles, or its typography.

Every plain wall deserves a piece of work, so why not cover it with a smile?

Every piece of art has a buyer. Only Time decides when the right buyer will see it.

Every second vibrates within our Present moment, our now. In one split second of awareness, we can create a Life full of Light, Joy, and Love.

Every season has its own art and the art of autumn is to bewitch the people!

Every science begins as philosophy and ends as art: It arises in hypothesis and flows into achievement. Philosophy is a hypothetical interpretation of the unknown (as in metaphysics), or of the inexactly known (as in ethics or political philosophy). It is the front trench in the siege of truth. Science is the captured territory, and behind it are those secure regions in which knowledge and art build our imperfect and marvelous world. Philosophy seems to stand still, perplexed, but only because she leaves the fruits of victory to her daughters the sciences, and herself passes on, divinely discontent, to the uncertain and unexplored.

Everything been Created, were once been conveyed as a Thought. And Imagination is an Art of Creation. Dare to Imagine it, be passionate to Work it, and you may end up leaving your world with that no one ever Thought could be!

Everything changed when I switched from saying “I have to do this” to “I GET to do this”. When I started viewing my art as a way to serve instead of building for my own profit. When I tried to meet people with an open heart and a will to love them instead of guarding my own history of solitude and brokenness. Dedication. Giving. Loving. That is the goal.

Everything I dreamed of became a reality, and my reality became a dream.

Everything hurts right now and nothing is helping because as the pain is getting worse — so is the love.

Everything, indeed, in a work of art should be unedited,--and even the words, by the manner of grouping them, of shaping them to new meanings,--and one often regrets having an alphabet familiar to too many half-lettered persons.

Everything is art and it's part of the painting. (To talk with somebody it's art, to understand a language is art, to understand a book is art, to understand somebody is art...)

Everything that now exists, no matter how great and good it is, lasts for a time, fulfills a purpose, and then passes on. And so it will be with all the works of art that now exist; an eternal veil of forgetfulness will lie over them, just as there is now over those things that came before.

Everything in the universe is a work of art. Every living creature a story. You should hang out in a museum or art gallery sometime and listen to the comments and conversations. They’re no different than any other time or anywhere else. Existence is art.” (Derek in "The Supernatural Prodigy")

Everything I’ve ever written has brought me into being. Every project has matured me in a different way. I am who I am today precisely because of what I have made, and what it has made me into. Creativity has hand raised me and forged me into an adult.

Everything you invent is true: you can be sure of that. Poetry is a subject as precise as geometry.

Everything worthwhile ends. We are in the perpetual process now: creation, maturation, cessation.

Every time I create something, whether an idea or a work of art, initially, its supposed completion seems absolutely perfect to me. However the more I think about it, stare it down, the more it marinates in my soul over the hours, days, and weeks, the more flaws I start to find in it; and finally, the more I'm pressed to continue enhancing it. It essentially turns out that whatever thing a flawed and imperfect, human eye once thought was amazing begins to appear quite wretched. This is why, eternally, God cannot be impressed by mere talents or by mortal achievements. To perfect eyes, I imagine that great is not really that great; rather, humility is ultimately a human being's true greatness.

Every work of art is one half of a secret handshake.

Every young sculptor seems to think that he must give the world some specimen of indecorous womanhood, and call it Eve, Venus, a Nymph, or any name that may apologize for a lack of decent clothing. I am weary, even more than I am ashamed, of seeing such things. Nowadays people are as good as born in their clothes, and there is practically not a nude human being in existence. An artist, therefore, as you must candidly confess, cannot sculpture nudity with a pure heart, if only because he is compelled to steal guilty glimpses at hired models. The marble inevitably loses its chastity under such circumstances. An old Greek sculptor, no doubt, found his models in the open sunshine, and among pure and princely maidens, and thus the nude statues of antiquity are as modest as violets, and sufficiently draped in their own beauty. But as for Mr. Gibson's colored Venuses (stained, I believe, with tobacco juice), and all other nudities of to-day, I really do not understand what they have to say to this generation, and would be glad to see as many heaps of quicklime in their stead.

Evil is real but God is greater.

Evolution has no foresight. Complex machinery develops its own agendas. Brains — cheat. Feedback loops evolve to promote stable heartbeats and then stumble upon the temptation of rhythm and music. The rush evoked by fractal imagery, the algorithms used for habitat selection, metastasize into art. Thrills that once had to be earned in increments of fitness can now be had from pointless introspection. Aesthetics rise unbidden from a trillion dopamine receptors, and the system moves beyond modeling the organism. It begins to model the very process of modeling. It consumes evermore computational resources, bogs itself down with endless recursion and irrelevant simulations. Like the parasitic DNA that accretes in every natural genome, it persists and proliferates and produces nothing but itself. Metaprocesses bloom like cancer, and awaken, and call themselves I.

Exaggerate the essential. Sometimes the art of existence depends on how you exaggerate the essential.

Every work of art tells a story.

Exiles, she and Leroy. They didn't need to go to Paris; that would do no good. What's the point of being spat on in France? What could they do in Rio, where black people are a mythological presence? No, the frontiers in Leroy's destiny were the sounds he heard and gave back as music; for Cypress the terrain of the new world was art. Her dance, like her people before her, adapted to the contours of her new land.

Explore Art without a campus, it is fulfilling in the unknown.

Everywhere you walk, every place you go is full of art, explicit or hidden! If you can see them, you will be the richest art collector and your memory will be the richest art gallery!

Exactly. The dots guy. I've always thought getting older was a bit like looking at those paintings. You're born, and that's when you're standing right up next to the canvas. Nothing makes any sense. There's just a lot of light and color. But as you get older, you begin to back away, and that's when the image starts to cohere. All those little spots of color turn into flowers, or people, or dogs. You gain perspective.

Existence is a medium of art.

Expectation. That is the true soul of art. If you can give a man more than he expects, then he will laud you his entire life. If you can create an air of anticipation and feed it properly, you will succeed.

Explaining the unknown should be left to science, questions of good and bad behavior can be answered by ethics, and inspiration is often found in the arts. There’s no longer a need for the social construct of religion.

Expressing anger is an art. The more grace you apply to it, the more effective it shall be.

Facts produce structures, objects are lyrical realities.

Fantasy like thought that no man could rain Just let her reign Run wild with her unafraid Of any rain storms They only wash the mud away and make way For double rainbows and sunny days