Best 114 quotes in «arts quotes» category

There are 2 types of artist: those who create for others in mind those who create for themselves either way, none are truly independent.

There is a Revolution, it’s a human and technological revolution

There is no limit to what a person can do that has been inspired by the arts!

There's no such thing as a flawed story; only flawed writers.

The value of an artist is more because of his originality than his skill.

This was awkward to infinity. Alex living here would change my entire routine. I was sharing a bathroom with my boyfriend. How scary was that? I had tampons and pads and everything in there. He was going to be naked in the shower on the other side of my bedroom wall. And I was going to be naked in the shower with him in my house.

The world needs great inspires, who will encourage every living soul to reach their highest potential. You can be one.

Think of the great poetry, the music and dance and ritual that spring forth from our aspiring to a life beyond death. Maybe these things are justification enough for our hopes and dreams, although I wouldn't say that to a dying man.

Walter Pater said that all the arts aspire to the condition of music, but I’ve always felt that music aspires to the condition of words.

To create different work, one needs new tools and materials

Un genio conversa con otro genio cara a cara, lo que no solo supone una alegría recíproca, sino también una dicha para el universo entero. Esa alegría existe y el universo existe también. El día que los genios no se reconozcan unos a otros, el mundo se oscurecerá y la Tierra dejará de dar vueltas sobre su eje

We are all born as storytellers. Our inner voice tells the first story we ever hear.

We didn't come to the world just to entertain, we came to play remarkable roles, and our reward is to see you doing more than us.

We artists are often counted as awkward by people who know nothing of how it feels to have another spirit live within you - the muse... Even some artists don't understand us, the mused ones, as our muses have faces and clearly appear to us, while all they have is the inspiration and not the muse. But ancient people knew of them... They said muses were goddesses and ruled upon the arts... It is true. When a muse forms into your mind and splits your spirit in two, you are already seized by it, controlled by it, and so you are bound to serve it and create masterpieces... It is not just we who create muses. They create us too. They form us into who we are.

We do not need to explain how the Aryans entered and settled in the Dravidian country (tira¯vit»a na¯» t»u), and subjugated and oppressed the Dravidians. Nor do we need to explain how before the Aryans entered the Dravidian country, the Dravidian country had a civilization and arts of the highest rank.

We are not here to question the possible, we are here to challenge the impossible

We do not need to explain how the Aryans entered and settled in the Dravidian country, and subjugated and oppressed the Dravidians. Nor do we need to explain how before the Aryans entered the Dravidian country, the Dravidian country had a civilization and arts of the highest rank.

We know the Arts are the archives of our human history, the wind of invention and the heartbeat of humanity

We must lice with our hearts in our hands - like Mary. We must hold the blood- red heart and no be disappointed when others look away.

What was the point of accurately rendering sketches, when everyone could draw up the same picture in their minds? What was special about being able to hold an image clearly in his head, rotate it, and see different angles of light reflecting off of it? Thanks to the Stream, everyone could do that now. The Stream robbed him of his artistic skill. Stupid Stream

We should learn as a people to pay good money for the food that feeds the soul and mind, same as we do for the food that feeds the body.

We need our Arts to teach us how to breathe

We need conscious entertainment that engage and influence its consumer to rational thinking.

Whenever an art form loses its fire, when it gets weakened by intellectual inbreeding and first principles fade into stale tradition, a radical fringe eventually appears to blow it up and rebuild from the rubble. Young Gun ultrarunners were like Lost Generation writers in the ’20s, Beat poets in the ’50s, and rock musicians in the ’60s: they were poor and ignored and free from all expectations and inhibitions. They were body artists, playing with the palette of human endurance.

When a show ends, for a few days, my body sizzles with leftover energy, like a tree in the wake of a lightning strike.

... when people are getting poorer, and children are growing more hungry and sick all around you, it is simply not enough for an artist to hide away somewhere, perfecting pictures of courtesans.

When there is no tension between the inner beingness and that which is being expressed, there is grace.

When the business people get done with the arts, all that’s left will be entertainment.

Who among us has not suddenly looked into his child's face, in the midst of the toils and troubles of everyday life, and at that moment "seen" that everything which is good, is loved and lovable, loved by God! Such certainties all mean, at bottom, one and the same thing: that the world is plumb and sound; that everything comes to its appointed goal; that in spite of all appearances, underlying all things is - peace, salvation, gloria; that nothing and no one is lost; that "God holds in his hand the beginning, middle, and end of all that is." Such nonrational, intuitive certainties of the divine base of all that is can be vouchsafed to our gaze even when it is turned toward the most insignificant-looking things, if only it is a gaze inspired by love. That, in the precise sense, is contemplation... Out of this kind of contemplation of the created world arise in never-ending wealth all true poetry and all real art, for it is the nature of poetry and art to be paean and praise heard above all the wails of lamentation. No one who is not capable of such contemplation can grasp poetry in a poetic fashion, that is to say, in the only meaningful fashion. The indispensability, the vital function of the arts in man's life, consists above all in this: that through them contemplation of the created world is kept alive and active.

When you're in a show, all through rehearsals Tech Week hovers out there like a magical holy grail. In reality, Tech Week is always a train wreck of missed cues, forgotten lines, malfunctioning set pieces and short tempers.

With crafting, you can never make a mistake because it's your own unique creation.

Why do you choose to write about such gruesome subjects? I usually answer this with another question: Why do you assume that I have a choice? Writing is a catch-as-catch-can sort of occupation. All of us seem to come equipped with filters on the floors of our minds, and all the filters have differing sizes and meshes. What catches in my filter may run right through yours. What catches in yours may pass through mine, no sweat. All of us seem to have a built-in obligation to sift through the sludge that gets caught in our respective mind-filters, and what we find there usually develops into some sort of sideline. The accountant may also be a photographer. The astronomer may collect coins. The school-teacher may do gravestone rubbings in charcoal. The sludge caught in the mind's filter, the stuff that refuses to go through, frequently becomes each person's private obsession. In civilized society we have an unspoken agreement to call our obsessions “hobbies.” Sometimes the hobby can become a full-time job. The accountant may discover that he can make enough money to support his family taking pictures; the schoolteacher may become enough of an expert on grave rubbings to go on the lecture circuit. And there are some professions which begin as hobbies and remain hobbies even after the practitioner is able to earn his living by pursuing his hobby; but because “hobby” is such a bumpy, common-sounding little word, we also have an unspoken agreement that we will call our professional hobbies “the arts.” Painting. Sculpture. Composing. Singing. Acting. The playing of a musical instrument. Writing. Enough books have been written on these seven subjects alone to sink a fleet of luxury liners. And the only thing we seem to be able to agree upon about them is this: that those who practice these arts honestly would continue to practice them even if they were not paid for their efforts; even if their efforts were criticized or even reviled; even on pain of imprisonment or death. To me, that seems to be a pretty fair definition of obsessional behavior. It applies to the plain hobbies as well as the fancy ones we call “the arts”; gun collectors sport bumper stickers reading YOU WILL TAKE MY GUN ONLY WHEN YOU PRY MY COLD DEAD FINGERS FROM IT, and in the suburbs of Boston, housewives who discovered political activism during the busing furor often sported similar stickers reading YOU'LL TAKE ME TO PRISON BEFORE YOU TAKE MY CHILDREN OUT OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD on the back bumpers of their station wagons. Similarly, if coin collecting were outlawed tomorrow, the astronomer very likely wouldn't turn in his steel pennies and buffalo nickels; he'd wrap them carefully in plastic, sink them to the bottom of his toilet tank, and gloat over them after midnight.

You know Pastor, baking is a real art. Especially bread baking. There is something so divine about it. It is a pure alchemy. And all alchemical elements are there: flour that comes from the earth and represents material, water that you mix with flour to make the dough, air released by the yeast fermentation that makes dough rise, fire that bakes the bread. It is fantastic. And the aroma of hot bread released during baking is the most pleasant fragrance for our senses. Think about that for a moment, Pastor. Any food aroma that we like, no matter how much we like it, gets overwhelming after a while, and we open the kitchen windows and close kitchen doors so the smell doesn’t get into the living room. Any smell, but the smell of freshly baked bread. Did you ever hear anybody complain about the smell of baked bread? Nobody, Pastor! Nobody. You hear people complaining about their neighbors frying fish, roasting pork, barbecuing sausages, but nobody ever complains about the smell of baked bread. And you know why? Because it is divine. It is magic – the magic of the craft.

Writing is a bittersweet addiction. The more it drains you; the more replenished you feel, and you crave it even more.

Ars longa vita brevis

A career in the arts can make anyone crazy.

Art is the medicine for the soul.

Art fuels the fire inside me.

Artists are social sensors and transmitters of ideas

You must have the Devil in you to succeed in any of the arts

Art has a way of expressing the thoughts, feelings, and events of the artist. Some paintings show things as simple as merry childhood memories while others have the complexity of inner strife and pain. Whatever the art, there will always be a meaning.

Arts without a spiritual relative is like frying buns with water.

But the culture-vultures and the intellectual snobs, and the self-appointed guardians of the Muses, often frighten off the average person from the free development of this appetite.

As I sit here on a snowy morning watching the flakes gently fall outside my window, I look at the 300-year-old building across the street and the beautifully carved angels on its facade. There was a time people would create, just to give something beautiful to the world which we are so blessed to live in and a time when people understood the work of all of the arts.

Be braver. Be more honest. Don’t hold onto what you knew in the past. Artists are meant to express what other people cannot. That is why an artist, of any type, is given a privileged position in society. They are meant to inspire and we are very reliant on inspiration to help us in our lives. You cannot inspire if you are not honest. What is honest for you now will take more courage to carry and hold than it did in the past.

Because most art relies upon sensorial cues, most art is a manifestation of empiricism. The senses form the tools that allow both the artist and the scientist to understand the nature of their subject. Observable data, and the interpretation of that observable data, is as fundamental to an artist as it is to a scientist.

Creativity is the most supreme form of love. When it flows from any heart flooded by truth and light, it can change all those who encounter its seductive vibrations.

Creativity is the DNA of innovation, the virus of evolution, the antidote to automation

Có một thi sĩ làm thơ hô hào những nhà sáng tác, những ca sĩ từ bỏ lối sáng tác và ca hát đau thương đứt ruột. Ông ta viết những câu này, tôi còn nhớ: Đừng kể nữa những mảnh tình tan tác, Hãy đứng lên, nhạc sĩ, với tôi đi! Tôi ghét anh ưa giọng hát sầu bi, Và tung mãi những tâm hồn thường trụy lạc. Hãy đứng dậy! Vứt chiếc cầm áo não! Tôi cần nghe những khúc nhạc rất hùng, Thét ngựa lòng phi mãi chẳng chồn chân, Sáng như gươm tuốt, mạnh như luồng bão. Ôi nhạc sĩ! Thật anh người thậm tệ! Quan hoài chi những khúc hát mê ly, Những câu ca không đẹp lại không thi Của kỹ nữ vọc cuộc đời ê trệ? Hãy cung kính nhượng những người tuổi tác, Những bản đàn nhịp hát thiếu tinh thần. Hãy ra xem sõng vỗ với mây vần, Và sáng chể cho tôi vài điệu khác. Nếu chúng ta cứ hát những bài khóc gió than mây và cứ nghe những bài độc huyền thì có thể ‘vận cái rủi’ vào số mạng của mình, tưới tẩm những hạt giống đau buồn, điều đó không tốt.

Describing the Arts to someone who had never tithed was as impossible as explaining an extra sense. The Arts tasted green, smelled like adrenaline, sounded cold.