Quotes About Art

One sublime malady/Is still called song.

Quand vous leur dites C'est une église et pas un arrosoir !..., je defaillis. Positif. Quel talent, mon curé, quel talent ! Et Dieu n'aime pas le sainfoin. Quel art !

hatching his poems..

What is it about meter and cadence and rhythm that makes their makers mad?

This time I read the title of the painting: Girl Interrupted at Her Music. Interrupted at her music: as my life had been, interrupted in the music of being seventeen, as her life had been, snatched and fixed on canvas: one moment made to stand still and to stand for all the other moments, whatever they would be or might have been. What life can recover from that?

Interrupted at her music: as my life had been, interrupted in the music of being seventeen, as her life had been, snatched and fixed on canvas: one moment made to stand still and to stand for all the other moments, whatever they would be or might have been. What life can recover from that? I

Quando sei triste hai bisogno di sentire il tuo dolore fatto musica

Stavolta lessi il titolo del quadro: Ragazza interrotta mentre suona. Interrotta mentre suona: com'era stata la mia vita, interrotta nella musica dei miei diciassette anni, com'era stata la sua vita, strappata e fissata su tela: un momento reso immobile, per tutti gli altri momenti, qualsiasi cosa fossero o avrebbero potuto essere. Quale vita può guarirne?

Fare lo scrittore è diventato un mestiere come un altro; un mestiere in cui furbizia, abilità e capacità di offrirsi ai media spesso suppliscono la presenza di un vero talento.

Like sin itself, Satan appeals to the senses. He originated and perfected the art of disguising evil as good.

Sculpture is about process, and this process is often fragmented. In a way, our lives are like that. A lot of people have trouble with transitions, with discontinuity. But this is what makes us grow. It's mysterious. You shift to a new platform and see things from a different perspective. Art does that. Wildlife does that. Wildlife and art reveal these transitions and demand we experience them.

La cosa più difficile quando si scrive è sapere che cosa scrivere

Aponto para o quadro na parede. – Não sei se conseguirei dar-te aquilo que te inspirou. Ele nem sequer olha para o quadro, completamente centrado em mim. – Não estou à procura do que já tive. Estou demasiado preocupado com aquilo que tenho à minha frente, neste preciso momento.

I point at the painting on the wall. "I don't know if I can give you what inspired that." He doesn't even look, his gaze on me instead. "I'm not looking for what I had. I'm too busy wanting what I have in front of me right now.

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I have a call.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.

to learn that money makes life smooth in some ways, and to feel how tight and threadbare life is if you have too little. * to despise money, which is a farce, mere paper, and to hate what you have to do for it, and yet to long to have it in order to be free from slaving for it. * to yearn toward art, music, ballet and good books, and get them only in tantalizing snatches.

But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

The door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality.

I am your opus.

How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?

I saw the gooseflesh on my skin. I did not know what made it. I was not cold. Had a ghost passed over? No, it was the poetry. A spark flew off Arnold and shook me, like a chill. I wanted to cry; I felt very odd. I had fallen into a new way of being happy.

It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a heavy rainfall, poems titled RAIN pour in from across the nation.

I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.