Best 22487 quotes in «art quotes» category

We need our Arts to teach us how to breathe

We possess art lest we perish of the truth.

We're all broken in one way or another, but it's through the cracks in our souls that the light comes through. And the light, Jenny, that's our art. Now, paint. Paint as if your life depends on it.

We’re all in a process of becoming. I’m never satisfied with my works. Never. I never see them as a finished product. Life is change. Change is life. Life is art. Art is life.

We're not copying life, we're making a comment on it.

...we see this tendency to throw off restraints in life, in art - it's an inglorious gesture of thumbing the nose - it makes me laugh...

We shouldn’t abbreviate the truth but rather get a new method of presentation.

We stand on the edge of national metamorphosis armed with hope and lengthy dreams, and the desire to leave the mistakes of the past far, far behind us. Some wake to a blessed plague of amnesia hoping never to recover the damage that was done. Some keep marching forward feeling the heavy ache of everything they wish to change about themselves and our nation dragging behind them like a long, prolonged shadow. And still others shine above the sun, sparkling like raging cosmonauts, propelled by the strength and power of their pathological optimism. I tend to slingshot between all 3 of these distinct planets with unruly fortitude. This is where art comes in. It helps me deal with my compulsive randomness, and allows me to abate life's repressions while exploring all possibilities of transformation and growth. And for this, I am eternally grateful.

We sing lyrical excess, exacerbated expressionism, imponed objectivity, inventiveness, meta-baroque, extravaganza, super metaphor, sublimity, strident, exposure, super-pone, noise, super-objectivity, zillionism, fragmentation and aesthetics of facts, suractivism.

We should remember that all the arts are fine arts and all the arts decorative arts.

We suffered for our art. You have to suffer for our art as well!

We tend to think that what matters is decided by society or culture or religion or our peers, but no one can say what truly matters except us.

We suicide ourselves for our own survival. Is there any hope of dipping back into the past and circling round it like you can in art?

We were created to look at one another, weren't we

We will feel conviction about the things we create only if we keep discovering, within those creations, new reasons for wanting them to be that way.

We were in Julie’s room one night, my eldest daughter and I, maybe a decade ago now. I wanted to show her how the canvas painting she had carefully labored over for her little sister's Christmas gift was framed and hung on the wall. I said, gazing at her masterpiece with no small amount of motherly pride, “Now it looks like a real work of art”. Bella looked at me quizzically, wondering yet again how her mother could possibly understand so little about the world. “Mama, every time you make something, or draw something, or paint something, it is already real art. There is no such thing as art that is not real” And so I said that she was right, and didn’t it look nice, and once again, daughter became guru and mother became willing student. Which is, I sometimes think, the way it was meant to be. ~~~~~ art is always real. all of it. even the stuff you don’t understand. even the stuff you don’t like. even the stuff that you made that you would be embarrassed to show your best friend that photo that you took when you first got your DSLR, when you captured her spirit perfectly but the focus landed on her shoulder? still art. the painting you did last year the first time you picked up a brush, the one your mentor critiqued to death? it’s art. the story you are holding in your heart and so desperately want to tell the world? definitely art. the scarf you knit for your son with the funky messed up rows? art. art. art. the poem scrawled on your dry cleaning receipt at the red light. the dress you want to sew. the song you want to sing. the clay you’ve not yet molded. everything you have made or will one day make or imagine making in your wildest dreams. it’s all real, every last bit. because there is no such thing as art that is not real.

We will be happy if we can get around to the idea that art is not an outside and extra thing; that it is a natural outcome of a state of being; that the state of being is the important thing; that a man can be a carpenter and be a great man.

We were thirsty for some form of beauty, even in an incomprehensible, overintellectual, abstract film with no subtitles and censored out of recognition. There was a sense of wonder at being in a public place for the first time in years without fear or anger, being in a place with a crowd of strangers that was not a demonstration, a protest rally, a breadline or a public execution...For a brief time we experienced collectively the kind of awful beauty that can only be grasped at through extreme anguish and expressed through art.

We write to go on living, after we have died.

We would go out and play these songs and people could interpret them however the hell they wanted.

We would – or at least we should – take upon ourselves the ultimate task of our poet: to seek the face of God.

We zijn inferieure schepselen, net goed genoeg om te jongen. We hebben eierstokken, moeten ons er iedere maand bij neerleggen dat we bloeden, we zijn afhankelijk van de maan. Onze hersenen zijn minder ontwikkeld dan die van onze metgezellen en onze lichaamskracht is geringer. In alle omstandigheden zijn we emotioneler. Als een vrouw ziet dat een rivale mooiere schoentjes draagt dan zij zelf, zal ze niet ophouden de ander omlaag te halen en te kwetsen. Kun je je twee mannen voorstellen die elkaar verfoeien vanwege hun molières? Mannen wedijveren met elkaar op het niveau van geld, ambitie en intelligentie. Zij hebben het vermogen tot afstand nemen en onthechting, terwijl vrouwen iedere beheersing verliezen zodra ze een poederdoos of een ring zien. Nooit zal een vrouw een Michelangelo, een Bach of een Palladio zijn. Grote filosofen met een rok aan bestaan niet. Hoe wil je dat ze systemen ontwerpen zoals Kant, Hegel of Marx? Een dergelijk abstraherend vermogen kan niet ontstaan in de geest van een pop.

What a face this girl possessed!—Could I neither die then nor gaze at her face every day, I would need to recreate it through painting or sculpture, or through fatherhood, until a second such face could be born.

What a major mistake, having rejected pretty much all of the great talented female artists that have lived throughout the ages, art history is left incomplete. The validity of the written art history is as absent as those women left out.

What a face this girl possessed!—could I not gaze at it every day I would need to recreate it through painting, sculpture, or fatherhood until a second such face is born.

What a Christian portrays in his art is the totality of life. Art is not to be a vehicle for self-conscious evangelism. Christians ought not to be threatened by fantasy and imagination. The Christian is the really free man. He is free to have imagination.

What an artist seeks, he finds without looking for it.

What can be labeled, packaged, mass produced is neither truth nor art.

What could she possibly have done that was so heinous as to earn her a lifetime of self-mortification? No one short of a tyrant deserved such unremitting agony. I cried there with her, for her, for Eve, for sorrows past, for sorrows yet to come. I put my pencil away. It was wrong to draw live pain. If there had been an artist at Bethany, it would have been wrong to intrude his chalk or charcoal on Mary Magdalene’s weeping as she washed Jesus’ feet. Some things were too raw for art until time dulled their sharpness.

What do you most get out of the artwork that you love the most? And answering my own question, I would hesitate to say that it is communing with someone else’s pain and frailty; it is the empathetic tear of another voice that is like yours but with more experience; it is your own adoration of a complex idea simply and acutely expressed. But chiefly it is that the work is located in the real.

What do you think an artist is? An imbecile who only has eyes, if he is a painter, or ears if he is a musician, or a lyre in every chamber of his heart if he is a poet, or even, if he is a boxer, just his muscles? Far from it: at the same time he is also a political being, constantly aware of the heartbreaking, passionate, or delightful things that happen in the world, shaping himself completely in their image. How could it be possible to feel no interest in other people, and with a cool indifference to detach yourself from the very life which they bring to you so abundantly? No, painting is not done to decorate apartments. It is an instrument of war.

What happens when you combine your passion, strength and value? This is the process of creating true art.

Whatever your medium, the goal of any arts practice is to develop a greater set of skills for dealing with challenges. Experience will help you close that gap between your own vision and the piece's final execution.

What else can you tell me?” Dad stares at me. “What have you learned while you were awake?” I learned that life is so, so fragile. I learned that you can know someone for just days and never forget the impression he left on you. I learned that art can be beautiful and sad at the same time. I learned that if someone loves you, he’ll wait for you to love him back. I learned that how much you want something doesn’t determine whether you get it or not, that “no” might not be enough, that life isn’t fair, that my parents can’t save me, that maybe no one can. “Nothing much,” I mutter.

What follows is the sum and substance of a remarkable year in a great artist’s life— Alexander Wainwright. He was at the pinnacle of his career when his art took a strange turn and I began to fear he had become possessed by some devil. But I was only beginning to understand the power of his passionate and hungry spirit, which nearly devoured him in his search for his new art—and his new life. James Helmsworth, [art dealer for Alexander Wainwright] in The Drawing Lesson. Enter for the giveaway of ten autographed copies of The Drawing Lesson, the first in The Trilogy of Remembrance starting on July 31st until August 31st, 2014.

Whatever you do in life, you can always do it in an artistic way!

What had, moments ago, appeared a dangerous gambit, now seemed an elegant coup de maître.

What has helped me bare an adverse fate will perhaps help me accept an overly favourable outcome -- and what has most sustained me was the great vision, the very great vision I have of art.

What if at school you had to take an art class in which you were only taught how to pain a fence? What if you were never shown the paintings of Leonardo da Vinci and Picasso? Would that make you appreciate art? Would you want to learn more about it? I doubt it...Of course this sounds ridiculous, but this is how math is taught.

What if your art could provide everything you ever needed or wanted in life?

What if you start to think of your art in terms of sales, too? Can you still be true to yourself?

What I say is misdirection, what you see is an illusion and what results is magic.

What is aesthetically beautiful, should not be able to be understood fully: by its mysterious character it should leave behind a vaguely pleasant feeling.

...What I depend on is a vigorous audience that can discover sweetness and light, beauty and truth, beyond the ability of the artist, on his own, to create them.

What he imagines evokes nothing imaginary, it evokes the reality of the world that experience and reason treat in a confused manner.

What if love has its secret thoughts,of tight emotions,the mystic sacrifices—and suicides and bare forlornness,the fright and tenderness on young, unripened faces.

What in hell are you really made of, Howard? After all, it's only a building. It's not the combination of holy sacrament, Indian torture, and sexual ecstasy that you seem to make of it." "Isn't it?

What I hate with women generally is the intimacy, the invasion of my innermost space, the slow strangulation of my art.

What is always needed in the appreciation of art, or life, is the larger perspective. Connections made, or at least attempted, where none existed before, the straining to encompass in one's glance at the varied world the common thread, the unifying theme through immense diversity, a fearlessness of growth, of search, of looking, that enlarges the private and the public world. And yet, in our particular society, it is the narrowed and narrowing view of life that often wins

What is drawing? How does one learn it? It is working through an invisible iron wall that seems to stand between what one feels and what one can do.