Best 22487 quotes in «art quotes» category

Selling your soul for money, recognition, or any otherworldly good is like selling your hearing for a music collection. It's pointless. What good is the music if you can't hear it? No amount of money or power is worth even a shred of the human soul.

Semoga di 2017 orang2 semakin sadar bahwa penyiar berita lebih perhatian ngucapin "selamat pagi" ketimbang gebetan yg sering diculik UFO

SELF PORTRAIT: Throwing Armfuls of Air into the Air

Semoga di 2017 jenis Php semakin bisa diidentifikasi, sehingga mblo mblo indonesia semakin waspada dan lebih berhati-hati

Serious art is born from serious play.

Seni yang benar-benar seni, tentu saja berbeda, dan anak-anak muda itu memakai alasan seni untuk membenarkan sikap mereka yang malas-malasan

Seriously, I think it is a grave fault in life that so much time is wasted in social matters, because it not only takes up time when you might be doing individual private things, but it prevents you storing up the psychic energy that can then be released to create art or whatever it is. It's terrible the way we scotch silence & solitude at every turn, quite suicidal. I can't see how to avoid it, without being very rich or very unpopular, & it does worry me, for time is slipping by , and nothing is done. It isn't as if anything was gained by this social frivolity, It isn't: it's just a waste.

Shakespeare was a far better psychologist than Freud, and Jane Austen a far better sociologist than Durkheim

She could have wept. It was bad, it was bad, it was infinitely bad! She could have done it differently of course; the colour could have been thinned and faded; the shapes etherealised; that was how Paunceforte would have seen it. But then she did not see it like that. She saw the colour burning on a framework of steel; the light of a butterfly’s wing lying upon the arches of a cathedral.

She didn't even insult me. She just didn't compliment me. This is how fragile the ego can be in connection with our creative expressions. The critic's voice is so powerful because it resonates with the voices of our deepest fears, those voices speaking from the inside of us, telling us that we are not good enough. The critics confirm our repressed and terrified suspicions that we don't measure up, that we are unsafe and unlovable.

She did not understand music and it upset her, it had only sad, tragic things to say. These leaping forms, these pursuits and insistences, these elusive desperate repetitions, always seemed to her like one long cry of agony. She could not, in this company, allow herself the luxury of self-pitying tears, which was her highest tribute to the art. She looked about her and let the music gather to her the people with whom she was so deeply concerned.

She gave life a meaning. She was art, dressed like a painters pallet, bright and unaware of how goddam beautiful she could be turned into; with the right touch, her smile was the brush and her story was the canvas.

She has given me a way out.

She loves filming and taking photographs. I can imagine her making beautiful films in France or India or somewhere with a gorgeously colourful culture. She somehow reminds me of my favourite place in the world, she and Paris I can romanticize and immortalize in ceaseless poetry for the rest of my life.

She loved the smell of wet dirt the way others might love the smell of roses.

(She picks up sugar bowls, ash trays, and tea pots because she can make them something else.) 'It depends on how much I had to hurt myself while I made it, how far I had to drag it, whether it was night or day. Mostly, I make it up," she says. ''It's a made-up price for made-up stuff in a made-up world.

She pours sugar on her life and drinks the artist’s marrow in the bone of her glass and she lives.

She preferred art so she chose to become a painter. I look at the painting and can't understand how she could 'choose'. We do things because we have to.

She's also in love with the 'Polish Rider'." "Who's he?" "A picture by Rembrandt.

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 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

She was a drawing that hadn't been colored.

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 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.

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.

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

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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

Sit there and look pretty.

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.

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

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 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.