Best 22487 quotes in «art quotes» category

She thought of all the people in all the paintings she had seen that day, not just Father's, in all the paintings of the world, in fact. Their eyes, the particular turn of a head, their loneliness or suffering or grief was borrowed by an artist to be seen by other people throughout the years who would never see them face to face. People who would be that close to her, she thought, a matter of a few arms' lengths, looking, looking, and they would never know her.

she wanted because art

She was all about the present. Paint and blood and lust. The now.

She wanted to and believed she could —so she did.

She was a poem and a painting too. Everything she said sounded like a song, every silence was the music too.

She was a splash of color on a white canvas, and not just because of the blue streaks threaded through the glossy brown hair tumbling around her shoulders.

She was a drawing that hadn't been colored.

she was completely whole and yet never fully complete

She was in awe of all his work. 'How do you do it?" she asked. He smiled and said, 'By loving you.

She was never going to seek gainful employment again, that was for certain. She'd remain outside the public sector. She'd be an anarchist, she'd travel with jaguars. She was going to train herself to be totally irrational. She'd fall in love with a totally inappropriate person. She'd really work on it, but abandon would be involved as well. She'd have different names, a.k.a. Snake, a.k.a. Snow - no that was juvenile. She wanted to be extraordinary, to possess a savage glitter.

She was rare, few and far between She suspected he would be as well And the thought of two rare, few and far between individuals Doing all that was necessary for that rare, few and far between Meeting to occur Drove her to write

Shigemori's body of work is a compelling manifesto for continuous cultural renewal.

... she wore a masterpiece smile with smudges of paint and graphite across her cheek, and her eyes were a Jackson Pollock painting.

Shit, you shoot me in a dream, you better wake up and apologize.

Signs imply ways of living, possibilities of existence, they are the symptoms of an overflowing (jaillissante) or exhausted (épuisée) life. But an artist cannot be content with an exhausted life, nor with a personal life. One does not write with one's ego, one's memory, and one's illnesses. In the act of writing there's an attempt to make life something more personal, to liberate life from what imprisons it...There is a profound link between signs, the event, life, and vitalism. It is the power of nonorganic life, that which can be found in a line of a drawing, a line of writing, a line of music. It is organisms that die, not life. There is no work of art that does not indicate an opening for life, a path between the cracks. Everything I have written has been vitalistic, at least I hope so, and constitutes a theory of signs and the event.

Si les instincts mercantiles l'emportaient définitivement sur le sentiment du beau; si l'art en venait à ne plus être que le courtisan interesé de la foule; si ceux que le cultivent ne consentaient plus à travailler que comme des manoeuvres et non en artistes, notre décadence serait sans remède.

Simon Stiegler, Literatur, Belletristik, Crime, Psychology, Philosophy, Art, children, Adult, books, author,Autor

Simplement parce les grandes oeuvres d'art, celles qui envahissent toute la vie, doivent résulter de la coopération harmonieuse entre voisins. Or, un homme riche n'a pas de voisins, mais des rivaux et des parasites.

Since 1960s pop art the art world has been happy for artists to use the lowbrow to add zest and authenticity to their works. But middlebrow has resonances of the suburban bourgeousie who might see art as aspirational by association.

Since the arrows of criticism aimed at these legendary masters, who directed the workshops of their day now frequently strike me in the back, I want you to know that the hackneyed accusations leveled at us are entirely unfounded. These are the facts: 1. The reason we don’t like anything innovative is that there is truly nothing new worth liking. 2. We treat most men like morons because, indeed, most men are morons, not because we’re poisoned by anger, unhappiness or some other flaw in character. (Granted, treating these people better would be more refined and sensible.) 3. The reason I forget and confuse so many names and faces—except those of the miniaturists I’ve loved and trained since their apprenticeships—is not senility, but because these names and faces are so lackluster and colorless as to be hardly worth remembering.

Since it is sure of its ability to control the entire domain of the visible and the audible via the laws governing commercial circulation and democratic communication, Empire no longer censures anything. All art, and all thought, is ruined when we accept this permission to consume, to communicate and to enjoy. We should become the pitiless censors of ourselves.

Si nuestros más fervientes deseos secretos se realizaran, el universo se rompería en pedazos, como una bola de vidrio, en un instante. El arte es la región ignota del mundo. El misterio es la regla de oro de la creación, la obra en sí, la realización de un acto secreto. Sustraer a la forma del mundo para descubrirla, para entregarla luego desnuda, envuelta sólo con la belleza de lo nefando, a la mirada es, quizás, el más jubiloso e infame de los pecados imperdonables: el de crear.

Sit there and look pretty.

Slechte kunst kan veranderd worden, getransformeerd worden tot iets goeds. Maar slechte mensen? Of slechte beslissingen? Volgens mij zijn die nooit meer goed te maken.

Snow floated down every once in a while, but it was frail snow, like a memory fading into the distance.

Snow-melt in the stream: Mama Nature turning winter's storms into nourishment for the soil, fecundity, and beauty. This is what I must now learn to do with the stormy weather I've been passing through: turn it into beauty, turn it into art, so new life can germinate and bloom. One example of a creative artist who does this is my friend Jane Yolen, who wrote her exquisite book of poems The Radiation Sonnets while her husband was undergoing treatment for the cancer that would eventually claim his life. This is what all artists must do: take whatever life gives us and "alchemize" it into our art (either directly and autobiographically, as in Jane's book, or indirectly; whatever approach works best), turning darkness into light, spinning straw into gold, transforming pain and hardship into what J.R.R. Tolkien called 'a miraculous grace.

So art becomes not communication but mystification.

So be wise. And if you cannot be wise, pretend to be someone who is wise and then just behave like they would. Now go, and make interesting mistakes. Make Interesting. Mistakes. Make glorious and fantastic mistakes. Break rules. Leave the world more interesting for you being here. Make good art.

Soar like an eagle beyond skies of heavens reach; as wings of dreams dance with winds of reality.

So age after age — will it be soon, O Lord? — Beneath the scalpel of nature and art, Our spirit screams, our flesh depletes itself, Giving birth to an organ for the sixth sense. ("The Sixth Sense")

[Soetsu Yanagi's] main criticism of individual craftsmen and modern artists is that they are overproud of their individualism. I think I am right in saying Yanagi's belief was that the good artist of craftsman has no personal pride because in his soul he knows that any prowess he shows is evidence of that Other Power. Therefore what Yanagi says is 'Take heed of the humble; be what you are by birthright; there is no room for arrogance'.

So, I found my refuge in art. I could find no truth in art, but I was obsessed with the beauty of its lies. The world was full of shit in all the wrong ways, but in art I could find whatever line of bullshit most satisfied me. And unlike religion, it didn’t require the gullibility to actually fall for it, only the ability to entertain it, and to be entertained by it.

Solitary walks are great for getting new ideas. It's like you're in a video game and you pick up idea coins on the way.

So long as your ambition is to stamp your existence upon evidence, your nature on nature, then your ambition is corrupt and you are pursuing a ghost.

Some art are meant to cut short stretching them unnecessary makes it dull.

So. Lie there, my art.

Some centuries ago they had Raphael and Michael Angelo; now we have Mr. Paul Delaroche, and all because we are progressing. You brag of your Opera houses; ten Opera houses the size of yours could dance a saraband in a Roman amphitheatre. Even Mr. Martin, with his lame tiger and his poor gouty lion, as drowsy as a subscriber to the Gazette, cuts a pretty small figure by the side of a gladiator from antiquity. What are your benefit performances, lasting till two in the morning, compared with those games which lasted a hundred days, with those performances in which real ships fought real battles on a real sea; when thousands of men earnestly carved each other -- turn pale, O heroic Franconi! -- when, the sea having withdrawn, the desert appeared, with its raging tigers and lions, fearful supernumeraries that played but once; when the leading part was played by some robust Dacian or Pannonian athlete, whom it would often have been might difficult to recall at the close of the performance, whose leading lady was some splendid and hungry lioness of Numidia starved for three days? Do you not consider the clown elephant superior to Mlle. Georges? Do you believe Taglioni dances better than did Arbuscula, and Perrot better than Bathyllus? Admirable as is Bocage, I am convinced Roscius could have given him points. Galeria Coppiola played young girls' parts, when over one hundred years old; it is true that the oldest of our leading ladies is scarcely more than sixty, and that Mlle. Mars has not even progressed in that direction. The ancients had three or four thousand gods in whom they believed, and we have but one, in whom we scarcely believe. That is a strange sort of progress. Is not Jupiter worth a good deal more than Don Juan, and is he not a much greater seducer? By my faith, I know not what we have invented, or even wherein we have improved.

Some artists are criticised, some artists are admired, but some artists are loved and they are the one who are remembered.

Some artists benefit less from being interviewed than they do from being left alone.

Some days you just get lucky… Other days you wait patiently for luck to happen

Some deaths were long, the decay so gradual the rotted end was nothing more than a sigh disappearing in the wind. Others were quick, the abrupt cut of a life in mid-phrase leaving unanswered questions lingering like an unresolved harmony.

Some people can see art in everything.

Some of the greatest masterpieces of art are created against the odds of reality. from the book: stuff i think about

Some people are disappointed in their life because they are trying to use the tools that God did not authorised them to use in their life, trying to build on a purpose that is not even attached in their personality.

Some people want to kill goliath but they do not want to attend to sheep. How can God use you to kill giants if you cannot follow simple instructions?

Some say art is our highest form of hope. . . . Perhaps it's our only hope.

Some of the people who hate me love some of the sentences that I have written, until they get to the name of the person to whom the sentences are attributed.

Some part of me knew that I could play this part well, or better than well. But I was almost afraid to play it. The line between stage and life was so fragile here that I felt a risk of losing myself somehow.

Some people are fragile Because they are beautiful

Some people try to color inside of the lines, when they are really meant to color outside of the lines and create masterpieces. Don't try to fit in, when you are meant to stand out and be different. You are a true work of art, don't ever try to change that.