Quotes About Ambiance

There are so many little places I want to play, sometimes weird places I think would be fun to play... a bar that's half full.

Lighting practically whenever I can when shooting period really helps with authenticity.

Although I have two good Anglepoise lights, I much prefer to work by daylight.

'Session 9' used light and darkness to create atmosphere.

This music that was supposed to only come from tapes like in any restaurant. Something would happened. One bird will start to do a little jazz thing, and another bird will start to answer.

Perhaps he wanted to make Monsieur Daladier feel at home by dressing as the Michelin Man?

Only one lamp in three or four was lit.

When he said good evening you felt that it was a good evening and that it was partly his doing that it was.

Moonlight and the murmur of pines blended together so that one could hardly tell which was light and which was sound.

the dark is your friend, isn't it? When you turn on the light, it makes the dark your enemy . . . and it glowers in at you resentfully.

And you know one can dream so much better in a room where there are pretty things.

No... it's lovely here when the dark is your friend, isn't it? When you turn on the light, it makes the dark your enemy... and it glowers in at you resentfully.

Have you ever noticed how many different silences there are, Gilbert? The silence of the woods . . . of the shore . . . of the meadows . . . of the night . . . of the summer afternoon. All different because all the undertones that thread them are different. I'm sure if I were totally blind and insensitive to heat and cold I could easily tell just where I was by the quality of the silence about me.

It's lovely when the dark is your friend, isn't it? When you turn on the light, it makes the dark your enemy... and it glowers in at you resentfully.

When night comes on in a room lit by kerosene, any flicker of the flame can give the sense that darkness is about to triumph.

The candle-light was dim, as though the darkness were trying to put it out.

It was already dark and the city was drifting like a bed of seaweed towards the lighted cafés of the upper town.

The fog was mysterious. The lights were mysterious. The music was A-Tisket, A-Tasket.

She lifter the shade and bathed the room in silver. Moonlight glinted off the glass and metal instruments on her desk and vanished into the eaves. Moonlight skimmed over her floorboards and made Nero's eyes a shimmering green. It wasn't enough to work by. It wasn't enough to read by. But who needed to read? She knew them by heart.

candle. They'd eaten dinner on the rear deck

The sonic world of the foyer and vestibule comes at him distorted and from a distance, as if someone's moving furniture underwater.

It's dark, like all bars should be.

The mist was like a faint perfume.

An accordion player posted himself at the curb and played La Paloma. The rug peddlers appeared with silken Keshans over their shoulders. A boy sold pistachios at the tables. It looked as it had always looked—until the newspaper boys came. The papers were almost torn from their hands and a few seconds later the terrace, with all the unfolded papers, appeared as if buried under a swarm of huge, white, bloodless moths sitting on their victims greedily, with noiseless flapping wings.