Best 22487 quotes in «art quotes» category

Yes, she is.” His eyes remained on Olivia, but she wasn’t aware he was watching her. “With art, I believe anything created with profound heart is captured compulsively beautifully.

Yesterday it was love. Today the great passions of unity and liberty disrupt the world. yesterday love led to individual death. Today collective passions make us run the risk of universal destruction. Today, just as yesterday, art wants to save from death a living image of our passions and our sufferings.

Yesterday it was sun outside. The sky was blue and people were lying under blooming cherry trees in the park. It was Friday, so records were released, that people have been working on for years. Friends around me find success and level up, do fancy photo shoots and get featured on big, white, movie screens. There were parties and lovers, hand in hand, laughing perfectly loud, but I walked numbly through the park, round and round, 40 times for 4 hours just wanting to make it through the day. There's a weight that inhabits my chest some times. Like a lock in my throat, making it hard to breathe. A little less air got through and the sky was so blue I couldn’t look at it because it made me sad, swelling tears in my eyes and they dripped quietly on the floor as I got on with my day. I tried to keep my focus, ticked off the to-do list, did my chores. Packed orders, wrote emails, paid bills and rewrote stories, but the panic kept growing, exploding in my chest. Tears falling on the desk tick tick tick me not making a sound and some days I just don't know what to do. Where to go or who to see and I try to be gentle, soft and kind, but anxiety eats you up and I just want to be fine. This is not beautiful. This is not useful. You can not do anything with it and it tries to control you, throw you off your balance and lovely ways but you can not let it. I cleaned up. Took myself for a walk. Tried to keep my eyes on the sky. Stayed away from the alcohol, stayed away from the destructive tools we learn to use. the smoking and the starving, the running, the madness, thinking it will help but it only feeds the fire and I don't want to hurt myself anymore. I made it through and today I woke up, lighter and proud because I'm still here. There are flowers growing outside my window. The coffee is warm, the air is pure. In a few hours I'll be on a train on my way to sing for people who invited me to come, to sing, for them. My own songs, that I created. Me—little me. From nowhere at all. And I have people around that I like and can laugh with, and it's spring again. It will always be spring again. And there will always be a new day.

Yesterday it was relaxation day. So I seated in a lotus position and closed my eyes to meditate. "Are you relaxing? I wish I had your peace of mind," someone said. "No, I'm working." I answered. Then I got up and started to paint. "Are you working now?" "Nope," I said, "I'm just relaxing... " When I finished painting, I showed it up saying, "Here's my piece of mind!

Yet torture is above all an art, an artistic discipline just like literature , cinema, or contemporary dance. All detained in the City-State ghettos bitterly missed the torturers of yesteryears, those monsters who worked with the precision of a Swiss watch-maker.

Yet, as creators we tend to be more mindful of the fruit than the tree. If the fruit is rotten, we tend to criticize the apple rather than looking at the branches from which the apple fell, the roots of the tree or the soil from which the tree draws nourishment. An orange is an orange because it comes from an orange tree. Our art is the product of who we are. If we think the fruit needs to be sweeter, bigger, more nourished, we must pick up our watering can and pruning sheers and turn our eyes not just to the fruit, but to the very tree and its roots-to the soil that we are planted in and the nutrients that we draw our inspiration from.

Yoga is the art of realizing that you are made in the image of God.

Yet entertainment--as I define it, pleasure and all--remains the only sure means we have of bridging, or at least of feeling as if we have bridged, the gulf of consciousness that separates each of us from everybody else. The best response to those who would cheapen and exploit it is not to disparage or repudiate but to reclaim entertainment as a job fit for artists and for audiences, a two-way exchange of attention, experience, and the universal hunger for connection.

Yet I am incapable of writing the only kind of novel which interests me: a book powered with an intellectual or moral passion strong enough to create order, to create a new way of looking at life. It is because I am too diffused. I have decided never to write another novel. I have fifty 'subjects' I could write about; and they would be competent enough. If there is one thing we can be sure of, it is that competent and informative novels will continue to pour from the publishing houses. I have only one, and the least important, of the qualities necessary to write at all, and that is curiosity. It is the curiosity of the journalist.

Yet she said to herself, from the dawn of time odes have been sung to love; wreathes heaped and roses; and if you asked nine people out of ten they would say they wanted nothing but this; while the women, judging from her own experience, would all the time be feeling, This is not what we want; there is nothing more tedious, puerile and inhumane than love; yet it is also absolutely beautiful and necessary.

You are a breathtaking work of art, far too brilliant to be hidden, far too beautiful to be broken.

You are art, science, philosophy, and religion in one; you are human.

You are art, science, philosophy, and religion all in one; you are human.

You are my other self

You are on my side," she says. "What side is that?" I ask. "The winning side," she says, and smiles. "The team of the artists." "Who are we playing?" "The barbarians," she says. "We are always playing them.

You are the birthplace of your own art. Always and forever. Which means you are the art itself. ⠀ ⠀ And that is fucking beautiful.

You are the most important project in your life. Spend time, work carefully, and act with positive intent as you work to create your best self. This life is your masterpiece. You are a masterpiece.

You are the Poem I dreamed of writing, the Masterpiece I longed to paint. You are the shining Star I reached for in my ever hopeful quest for life fulfilled. Yes, I am Blessed.

You ask me to write you a poem, I pen you an empty ocean, You run away. You ask me who I am, I paint you a breaking sky, You weep in the rain.

You break through the veil whenever you strap on a sword or chant the ancient verses. You escape when you write a poem or a tale that brings beauty into the world. You are set free whenever you love—even those who believe you’re crazy.

You can be a good painter if you study Cézanne's vision. Whoever dares to copy Van Gogh falls inevitably into the hell of imitators. For this painter didn't care about masterpieces, or even good paintings... but about what is beyond all painting, all art.

You can choose a love and a life that does not break you. You can claim a softer beauty and a kinder want. Even your animal hunger can soften its rough edges and say a full-throated yes to what is good and kind and holy. Know that insanity is not a prerequisite for passion and that there is another pathway to your art, one that does not demand your pain as payment for its own becoming. Love, it doesn't have to hurt anymore.

You can not lie in your paintings, because you cannot hide from yourself.

You cannot negotiate art.

You cannot reach lofty heights in art if you do not first discover the unsurpassable beauty in your own heart. If you would like to play the flute truly well, you must find your true self on the Path of Awakening

You can not teach art, it's not to be taught, but felt and lived, or else it is naught.

You can sell anything as long as you give it a good description

You can't dance to paintings. This is something Ben said, during one of our White Cube conversations, back when I was still wrong about him. He said it even though, at the time, he was desperately trying to be a painter. He said it because it was true and not because it was something either of us wanted to hear.

You can't disappoint what God has appointed.

You can survive without artistry, but you cannot live without artistry.

You can steal someone's Art, But not their Heart. You can immitate them, But you can never be like them. You can hurt them, But you cannot kill their will to love again. You can leave, But your space will always be filled by someone better than you.

You can't draw her because you idolize her. You keep trying to create a tribute. But these drawings aren't about that. They're the truth.

You can't love me if you don't love you, you can't think of nothing to do with me if you can't think of nothing to do with yourself, stop feeling sorry for yourself and tidy up, clean up the apartment until you get a house, do that job until you build your own company. Look at what you have and think on how to make it better.

You can't make a fan of everyone. Stay true to your story, characters, music, art or whatever it is you do and fuck everyone else who doesn't like it. Life isn't perfect.

You can't rush art." I crumpled another lost attempt and tossed it behind me. "Besides, patience is a virtue." "It's a virtue until it's a waste of time," he pointed out. The cello unleashed a few notes that sounded strangely bright for such an instrument, and Hal nodded in its direction. "See; even a musical instrument agrees with me.

You can't force creatives into a box. If you try, they'll no longer be creative. And no one will want your box.

You can work alone for years, it’s actually the only way to work if truth be told; but there always comes a moment when you feel the need to show your work to the world, less to receive its judgement than to reassure yourself about the existence of this work, or even of your own existence, for in a social species individuality is little more than a short piece of fiction.

You dive deeper, you strip away the cleverness and the words become more important than your ego and that's when you know it's real, when it's good.

You do not deserve most of what has happened or will. But there is something I can offer you. Whoever you are. Out there. As lonely as it gets, you are not alone. There is another kind of love. It’s the love of art. Because I believe in art the way other people believe in god. In art I’ve met an army of people - a tribe that gives good company and courage and hope. In books and painting and music and film. This book? It’s for you. It’s water I made a path through. I’m not speaking out of my asshole when I say this. Come in. The water will hold you.

You despise the real bourgeois classes for all their snobbishness and their snobbish voices and ways. You do, don't you? Yet all you put in their place is a horrid little refusal to have nasty thoughts or do nasty things or be nasty in any way. Do you know that every great thing in the story of art and every beautiful thing in life is actually what you call nasty or has been caused by feelings that you would call nasty? By passion, by love, by hatred, by truth. Do you know that?

You don't create or write to be successful; you don't create or paint to be famous or to increase your wealth. You do all of these things because your soul is calling you to do them.

You don't have to feel grateful in order to be grateful.

You don't have to position yourself in front of people to be used by God. You don't have to convince anyone that you are good enough for the voice of God, just be grateful that God chooses who He wills and once He is ready to use you, no devil in hell can stop Him.

You fear mistakes, but you shouldn't. Mistakes are your best friends as an artist. Embrace them. Seek them out. Draw with the purpose of making mistakes. When I was in one of those progressive European art schools when I was a young lad, all the teachers did was setting you up to make mistakes. Because with mistakes comes discovery. At one point you develop a system that is based on making mistakes. It's called experimenting. You produce 100 mistakes and you get 1 gem. You have now truly advanced, because you progressed with awareness. On a smaller scale. There is a shitty line in your drawing. Great. Pay more attention to it in your next drawing. Or schedule in some line practice. Ignore perfection. You want mistakes. Mistakes are what you should go for. Mistakes are your best friends. They don't lie to you and tell you what you need to know. Cherish them. Look at them for what they are. They are you. And you need them. Every time you make a mistake and you see it, you should be happy. Start looking for mistakes. Make them on purpose. Train yourself. Practice making mistakes till you are comfortable with them. Nothing comes for free, except the gift of mistakes.

You get the best photos, the best literature, the best poems, the best art while working for your own pleasure with your own inner peace!

You have a standing invitation to experience God's presence but you have to pay attention because attention creates access.

You have described only too well," replied the Master, "where the difficulty lies...The right shot at the right moment does not come because you do not let go of yourself. You...brace yourself for failure. So long as that is so, you have no choice but to call forth something yourself that ought to happen independently of you, and so long as you call it forth your hand will not open in the right way--like the hand of a child.

You haunt my days and dreams.

You have to believe that your voice can mean something. You have to believe that what you do matters. And you have to keep going even on days you can't find that belief. If you can't do it for yourself, you do it for all the other young souls who need to be shown that things are possible. That they too can do that thing they dream of. You do it despite the doubts and the struggles. You do it because it's what you came here to do. That's what makes an artist.

You have to know how to be vulgar. Paint with four-letter words.