Quotes About Inspiration

Patti, did art get us?' I looked away, not really wanting to think about it. 'I don't know, Robert. I don't know.' Perhaps it did, but no one could regret that. Only a fool would regret being had by art; or a saint.

But secretly I knew I had been transformed, moved by the revalation that human beings create art, that to be an artist was to see what others could not.

I'm certain, as we filled down the great staircase, that I appeared the same as ever, a moping twelve years-old, all arms and legs. But secretly I knew I had been transformed, moved by the revelation that human beings create art, that to be an artist was to see what others could not.

I wish I could just project everything on the paper,

To be an artist is to enter into competition with god.

Why do we write? A chorus erupts. Because we cannot simply live.

Writing is not some quiet, closet act.

All I needed for the mind was to be led to new stations. All I needed for the heart was to visit a place of greater storms.

I'm off balance, not sure what's wrong. —You have misplaced joy, he said without hesitation. Without joy, we are as dead. —How do I find it again? —Find those who have it and bathe in their perfection.

I preferred an artist who transformed his time, not mirrored it." - reference to Andy Warhol

In my way of thinking, anything is possible. Life is at the bottom of things and belief at the top, while the creative impulse, dwelling in the center, informs all.

He contained, even at an early age, a stirring and the desire to stir.

I imagined a lot of things. That I would shine. That I'd be good. I'd dwell bareheaded on a summit turning a wheel that would turn the earth undetected, amongst the clouds, I would have some influence; be of some avail.

It's not so easy writing about nothing.

I was attracted to Robert's work because his visual vocabulary was akin to my poetic one, even if we seemed to be moving toward different destinations. Robert always would tell me, "Nothing is finished until you see it.

He wrote me a note to say we would create art together and we would make it, with or without the rest of the world.

I knew if I lived long enough I would be poet laureate of something.

I wrote to give myself something to read.

Your work, coming from a fluid source, can be traced to the naked song of your youth. You spoke then of holding hands with God. Remember, through everything, you have always held that hand, grip it hard, Robert, and don't let go. (letter to Robert Mapplethorpe, 1970)

Everything I came up with seemed irreverent or irrelevant.

Of all your work, you are still your most beautiful. The most beautiful work of all.

A wind picked up and I could feel the sea within it.

You have misplaced joy, he said without hesitation. Without joy, we are as dead. —How do I find it again? —Find those who have it and bathe in their perfection.

Secretly I knew I had been transformed, moved by the revelation that human beings create art, that to be an artist was to see what others could not.