Quotes About Photographs

I am going to look at the stars. They are so far away, and their light takes so long to reach us. All we ever see of stars are their old photographs.

How often do parents nostalgically reflect on their children when they were younger? It is easy to look at photographs and miss those cute, plump-faced, miniature versions of the gawky and resentful specimens they have become.

I have a vision of life, and I try to find equivalents for it in the form of photographs.

Memories have no life. They're just pale reminders of a time that's gone-like faded photographs.

My photographs are a celebration of life, fun and the beautiful. They are a world that doesn't exist. A fantasy. Freedom is real. There are no rules. The life I wish I was living.

The greatest work of art about New York? The question seems nebulous. The city's magic and majesty are distilled in the photographs of Alfred Stieglitz and Paul Strand.

Appropriation is the idea that ate the art world. Go to any Chelsea gallery or international biennial and you'll find it. It's there in paintings of photographs, photographs of advertising, sculpture with ready-made objects, videos using already-existing film.

The old Hollywood I knew is dead. It only exists now in still photographs and a few people's memories." — Olivia de Havilland

I believe in discovering the love that exists and then trying to understand it. Not to invent a love and try to make it exist, and then to see what it is. I believe in trying to understand love through other loves, other loves that have existed before. Many people have made the records of these loves. These records can be found. They can be read. Some are songs. Some are just photographs. Most are stories.

In honor of the fair Kodak called the folding version of its popular model No. 4 box camera the Columbus. The photographs these new cameras created were fast becoming known as "snap-shots," a term originally used by English hunters to describe a quick shot with a gun.

In spite of photographs taken in beer halls or nightclubs showing her cuddling up to some strapping, smirking youth, it seems that the romantic cliché was true: when she met Adolf Hitler, Eva Braun met her destiny

My dad had a small suitcase stuffed with photos, mementoes from wherever he'd traveled as a Royal Navy gunner. Not that he gunned very much, as it turned out. I'd haul it out and go through it time and time again.

My dad came to Korea one time, and then he pulls out a whole bunch of my headshot prints. He's like, 'Amber, you need to sign all of this for me because all of my friends want these.' I guess that's when I kind of realized I was 'famous.'

The producers came across some of my photographs. They thought that I resembled Ambedkar closely. So they invited me.

sawhorses and sifted it. Anna Coles took photographs. Any bones or

The photographs had made him aware how much the street and the buildings meant to him. Like an extended family that he'd taken for granted and ignored, assuming it would always be there. But buildings and roads and spaces were as fragile as human beings, you had to cherish them while you had them.

Afternoon with Michel, sorting maman's belongings. Began the day by looking at her photographs. A cruel mourning begins again (but had never ended). To begin again without resting. Sisyphus.

Photographs thrust home the fact of our mortality. We look at faces and limbs warm or tense with life, knowing full well that they are now dust. Sound haunts me even more. I can look at a photo of Maria Callas and accept the fact that she is dead, but I am bewildered when I hear her voice coming out of my CD player. For that voice, quivering with immediacy and passion, is the quintessence of life-of what it means to be fully alive.

There was nothing in the fourth stack. Not even a possible. A hundred and sixty gone by. Neagley slid the final forty into place. Reacher watched Klopp. One card at a time, left thumb and index finger, held easy, not near and not far. Decent vision, with his glasses on. Genuine concentration. Not a bored blank stare or an impatient sneer. A calm focus. He was interrogating the photographs, one by one, point by point. Eyes, cheek bones, mouth. Yes or no. No

And I'll dance with you in Vienna, I'll be wearing a river's disguise. The hyacinth wild on my shoulder my mouth on the dew of your thighs. And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss. And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty, my cheap violin and my cross.

One sister. Younger, of course. I terrorized her for most of our childhood. On the other hand, every time I fell asleep in the family room, she put makeup on my face and took pictures. So I guess it evens itself out. Plus, I'm the only man you'll ever meet who understands just how hard it is to remove waterproof mascara. And I guess I'll never run for political office. The photos alone would ruin me.

photographs on a wall were there for people to see and to examine if interested; an album is a different thing…

Each letter feels like a page in a book that he won't fully understand until he reaches the end. It feels imperative - in a way nothing else in his life has - that he read every word. The attention he brings to the letters seems to be changing him; Edward can feel strands inside himself gathering, trying to find a shape in which he will be able to meet the eyes of the people in the photographs.

I'm a contemporary artist and I show in art galleries and museums. I show a number of photographs and films, but I also make television programs, books and some appetizing, all with the same concept.