Best 1313 quotes in «painting quotes» category

Meditative finger painting. I don't suppose da Vinci ever had to put up with crap like this.

Merleau-Ponty's painting inhabits the same rhetoric as early cinema: it makes the invisible visible, or rather it makes visibility visible; it forms from the thresholds of the visible and invisible world, an order, mode, or aesthetic of visuality. Not only of the small or fast, but of visibility as such. The visuality of the visible and the invisible is found in the mixture of the body and its world, of your body and your world, all your worlds, all your bodies in this world and all those others. Painting is the process by which the visuality of the visible and invisible is made manifest: "Painting mixes up all our categories in laying out its oneiric universe of carnal essences, of effective likenesses, of mute meanings." Each painting is a universal archive, a picture of the universe, a universal image—and like a dream.

Most people take life as a jigsaw puzzle that has to be solved. It is a symphony only if you can play the music. It is a masterpiece only if you can paint it.

Musicians do not get on stage without hearing the song singing inside of them. Poets do not write as if they are jotting down a sermon, they see everything in their subconscious before presenting it to the conscious, which they later turn to  readable materials. Artist do not draw and paint without painting in dream states, trance, or see an art form that others do not see. Being creative does not calls for being any supernatural entity, but in creating with the entities inside of you.

My business is to paint what I see, not what I know is there.

My eyes roved over the walls covered with my collages and prints of famous paintings. Magritte, Kandinsky, Kahlo. My origami shapes hung from fishing wire, dangling over my bed. They shivered in the slight breeze blowing through my open window. It was my own little escape pod, but none of it was enough tonight.

Negative people will always be there to stain your pure image with their dirty tongues and brushes, but you'll always remain as white as snow, no matter how high the quality of paint they use.

My identity is simply a many-dimensional painting © Wolfstuff

My paintings are not the executions of one idea or emotion that goes from (a) intention to (b) artwork. (Our notions of cause and effect are also in bad shape.) Drawings are closer and quicker in conveying immediate feelings. The more you move towards paintings, the darker the wood becomes through which Little Red Riding Hood goes, and it's not only the wolf but also the wicked with and the seven dwarfs, Judas and Jesus and the journalists, whom she has to face.

My great longing is to learn to make those very incorrectnesses, those deviations, remodellings, changes of reality, so that they may become, yes, untruth if you like - but more true than the literal truth.

My soul didn’t know what kind of picture to paint, but my meat sure did.

My work was very meticulous and very slow as a painter and so the difficulty was—the question that my graduate thesis program had—was “how are you going to make a living doing this?” After I graduated, I continued on in the same way, but I discovered that I was progressing very quickly as an artist, and that before my pieces were done, I was getting tired of them. So I knew I had to find something that moved along quicker, that followed my natural path of growth as an artist.

Nor that he's regarding my face with the same intensity I am his. We're two paintings staring at each other across a room.

Never look back. The past is done. The future is a blank canvas. Work on creating a masterpiece. Only you have the power to make your painting beautiful.

No sketches first, no studies, that's long past: I do what many dream of, all their lives, --Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, And fail in doing. I could count twenty such On twice your fingers, and not leave this town, Who strive--you don't know how the others strive To paint a little thing like that you smeared Carelessly passing with your robes afloat,-- Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says, (I know his name, no matter)--so much less! Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged. There burns a truer light of God in them, In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know, Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me, Enter and take their place there sure enough, Though they come back and cannot tell the world.

No pensaste jamás que ese espejo eran mis ojos, que esa puerta que el viento abate era mi corazón, latiendo, puesto al desnudo por la habilidad de un cirujano que llega en la noche a ejercitar su destreza en la carroña ansiosa de nuestros cuerpos, un corazón que late ante un espejo, imagen de una puerta que golpea contra el quicio mientras afuera, más allá de sí misma, la lluvia incesante golpea en la noche contra la ventana como tratando de impedir que tu última mirada escape, para que nuestro sueño no huya de nosotros, y se quede, para siempre, fijo en la actitud de esos personajes representados en el cuadro: un cuadro que por la ebriedad de nuestro deseo creímos que era real y que sólo ahora sabemos que no era un cuadro, sino un espejo en cuya superficie nos estamos viendo morir.

Not settles herself in the farthest reaches of the gallery, admiring the work of an artist she hasn't seen before. The canvases are large and dark, great splashes of royal blue on black, what appear to be deep purple seas beneath deep red skies. They remind her of Turner's tranquil sunsets, with a slightly sinister edge, as if sharks swim in the purple seas and black crows caw through the red skies.

Nothing is more beautiful than an organized width, and nothing is worse than an unorganized lapidary.

Now you are walking in Paris all alone in the crowd As herds of bellowing buses drive by Love's anguish tightens your throat As if you were never to be loved again If you lived in the old days you would enter a monastery You are ashamed when you discover yourself reciting a prayer You make fun of yourself and like the fire of Hell your laughter crackles The sparks of your laugh gild the depths of your life It's a painting hanging in a dark museum And sometimes you go and look at it close up

No, you don't shoot things. You capture them. Photography means painting with light. And that's what you do. You paint a picture only by adding light to the things you see.

One of the most beautiful things to do is to paint darkness, which nevertheless has light in it.

O mică trupă de țărani napolitani își repetau pașii de dans în capătul capelei, unii rotindu-și brațele deasupra capetelor, alții legănându-și coșurile cu violete de hârtie și făcând reverențe.

...of his family that he should be painted; he consented at length for his children's sake, but was disturbed when the portrait arrived: "I was but too much taken with my own shadow when it came home; but then I thought, a man should study both to be blameless and eminently active, that presumes to leave a picture behind him. If it put in mind of evil or of no good done by him, it is to little or bad purpose." The extreme Puritan would have rejected the idea of a portrait out of hand as a mortal vanity. p126

Oh, glorious Art!" thus mused the enthusiastic painter, as he trod the street. "Thou art the image of the Creator's own. The innumerable forms that wander in nothingness start into being at thy beck. The dead live again. Thou recallest them to their old scenes, and givest their gray shadows the lustre of a better life, at once earthly and immortal. Thou snatchest back the fleeing moments of History. With thee, there is no Past; for at thy touch, all that is great becomes forever present; and illustrious men live through long ages in the visible performance of the very deeds which made them what they are.

Outline of your frame My paper witness your silhouette Sipping in coffee My muse, my Juliet. Afternoon spent, In hungry desires Ending with a kiss On your coffee lips.

Our best canvas is all around us, in everything we touch and do.

Our body is a sacred temple A place to connect with people. As we aren't staying any younger We might as well keep it stronger.

Pablo Picasso was notorious for sucking the energy out of the people he met. His granddaughter Marina claimed that he squeezed people like one of his tubes of oil paints. You's have a great time hanging out all day with Picasso, and then you's go home nervous and exhausted, and Picasso would go back to his studio and paint all night, using the energy he'd sucked out of you.

Painting imparts new wings And my mind soars high; Imagination glitters the alleys of my mind And I fly, fly, fly...

Painting is mute poetry, and poetry is blind painting

Painting reflects. It kills you in a colourful shower of emptiness. Flatness. Randomness. And beauty. Yes, it is the most pure beauty I have ever felt in my life.

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Painting is the mother of Photography

Painting has to do with knocking yourself out day after day trying to get what you want to down on canvas. Maybe it works and maybe it doesn't, but every day you try. That's what painting is.

Painting is a great outlet for those inner emotions you cannot get out any other way.

Painting is an alternative when there is no more pages left in the journal.

Painting is a kind of visual poetry as poetry is a kind of verbal painting.

Personality cults by contemporary painters infuriate me. One must seek the opposite, fade away more every day, and find exactingness only in the act of painting, and always forget oneself.

Pearls. Take, like an oyster, your irritations, your pain. Use these to create your masterpiece.

Perhaps we painted on our own skin, with ochre and charcoal, long before we painted on stone.

(...) photography opened up quite a little Pandora's box, kiddies. (...) Once we no longer had to depend on drawing and painting to record our existence — once they became an option — they mutated . . . into a form of expression. And Art for its own sake, God help us, was born.

Portrait: The Boy with All the Keys in the World with All the Locks

Pragmatism is good prevention for problems.

Recently I've been working very hard and quickly; in this way I try to express the desperately fast passage of things in modern life. Yesterday, in the rain, I painted a large landscape with fields as far as the eye can see, viewed from a height, different kinds of greenery, a dark green field of potatoes, the rich purple earth between the regular rows of plants, to one side a field of peas white with bloom, a field of clover with pink flowers and the little figure of a mower, a field of tall, ripe, fawn-coloured grass, then some wheat, some poplars, on the horizon a last line of blue hills at the foot of which a train is passing, leaving an immense trail of white smoke over the greenery. A white road crosses the canvas, on the road a little carriage and some white houses with bright red roofs alongside a road. Fine drizzle streaks the whole with blue or grey lines.

SELF PORTRAIT: Throwing Armfuls of Air into the Air

She had picked the spot the day before and carried out a stool low enough to sit on and still have her paintbox and her water cup within reach. Anna didn't use an easel. Easels seemed to her an altogether too assertive aid, too obvious. She liked to work as unobtrusively as possible, the paper spread on a board in her lap, close to her hand.

She felt raw, a painting that wasn't dry yet. One hard nudge and she'd smear all over the place.

She felt about a love set as a painter does about his masterpiece; each ace serve was a form of brushwork to her, and her fantastically accurate shot-placing was certainly a study in composition.

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

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.