Quotes About Creativity

It was exciting just to stand in front of the hallowed ground of Birdland that had been blessed by John Coltrane, or the Five Spot on St. Mark's Place where Billie Holiday used to sing, where Eric Dolphy and Ornette Coleman opened the field of jazz like human can openers.

I stand naked when I draw. God holds my hand and we sing together." His manifesto as an artist.

To achieve within the work a perfect balance of faith and execution. From this state of mind comes a light, life-charged.

Most of the time, it seemed as if the piece was fully formed in his mind. He was not one for improvising. It was more a question of executing something he saw in a flash.

Free of all expectation or desire, she spun, and was at once the loom, the thread, the strand of gold

I feel a real responsibility to the images I get attached to.

We never saw beyond New York save in books and never sat in an airplane holding each other's hand to ascend into a new sky and descend onto a new Earth. Yet Robert and I had explored the frontier of our work and created space for each other.

All writers are bums...

Gregory [Corso] made lists of books for me to read, told me the best dictionary to own, encouraged and challenged me. Gregory Corso, Allen Ginsberg, and William Burroughs were all my teachers, each one passing through the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel, my new university.

Varför skriver vi? En kör av röster väller fram. För att vi inte bara kan leva.

Varför måste man skriva? För att ställa sig vid sidan om, som i en kokong, försjunken i ensamhet, på trots mot andras behov. Virginia Woolf hade sitt rum. Proust sina stängda fönsterluckor. Marguerite Duras sitt tysta hus. Dylan Thomas sin enkla bod. Alla var de ute efter en tomhet att fylla med ord. Orden som ska tränga in i orörda marker, uppdaga oinmutade associationer, ge uttryck åt oändligheten.

Everything pours forth. Photographs their history. Books their words. Walls their sounds. The spirits rose like an ether that spun an arabesque and touched down as gently as a benevolent mask.

I can examine how, but not why, I wrote what I did, or why I had so perversely deviated from my original path. Can one, tracking and successfully collaring a criminal, truly comprehend the criminal mind? Can we truly separate the how and the why?

The old world and the emerging one served up in the brick and mortar of the artisan and the architects.

Then there are the scores of notebooks, their contents calling — confession, revelation, endless variations of the same paragraph — and piles of napkins scrawled with incomprehensible rants. Dried-out ink bottles, encrusted nibs, cartridges for pens long gone, mechanical pencils emptied of lead. Writer's debris.

El muchacho que yo había conocido era tímido y tenía dificultad para expresarse. Le gustaba dejarse llevar, que lo cogieran de la mano para entrar sin reservas en un mundo distinto. Era masculino y protector, pese a ser femenino y sumiso. Meticuloso en su vestuario y modales, también era capaz de un desorden atemorizante en su obra. Sus mundos eran solitarios y peligrosos, y vaticinaban libertad, éxtasis y liberación.

Nothing really matches the atmosphere of the old Polaroid film. Except perhaps a poem, a musical phrase, or a forest hung with mist.

Will you take a picture? she said. I looked down at the bleak panorama and shook my head. How could I take a picture of nothing?

Suddenly he looked up and said, "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.

I'm sure I could write endlessly about nothing. If only I had nothing to say.

Ve o an dü? gören herkesin kendi devirlerindekileri dü?ledi?ini geçirmi?tim akl?mdan. Antik Yunan uygarl??? kendi tanr?lar?n?n dü?lerini kurdu. Emily Brontë çorak arazilerin.

I'm certain, as we filed down the great staircase, that I appeared the same as ever, a moping twelve-year-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.

Most often the alchemy that produces a poem or a work of fiction is hidden within the work itself, if not embedded in the coiling ridges of the mind.

It ain't so easy writing about nothin