Quotes About Art

Psychotherapy is more than technique in that it is art, and goes beyond pure science in that it is wisdom. [...] Wisdom requires the human touch.

Les jeunes rêvent, souffrent et espèrent. Les meilleurs artistes sont le plus souvent des êtres jeunes qui sont plutôt malheureux en amour qu'heureux. L'amour est la racine de tout... on ne peut pas y échapper.

The Greeks shape bronze statues so real they seem to breathe, And carve cold marble until it almost comes to life. The Greeks compose great orations, and measure The heavens so well they can predict the rising of the stars. But you, Romans, remember your great arts; To govern the peoples with authority, To establish peace under the rule of law, To conquer the mighty, and show them mercy once they are conquered. -Virgil, Aeneid VI, 847-853

I was the first to bring the Muse into my country.

I have never known a musician who regretted being one. Whatever deceptions life may have in store for you, music itself is not going to let you down.

The merging of characteristics between different species creates a very powerful language, one that I love to explore through my art, enabling me to tap into the unconscious.

He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise; dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink.

For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.

How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn't pull the trigger?

I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one's own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.

For masterpieces are not single and solitary births; they are the outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of the people, so that the experience of the mass is behind the single voice.

The most extraordinary thing about writing is that when you've struck the right vein, tiredness goes. It must be an effort, thinking wrong.

Behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we—I mean all human beings—are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.

Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.

Her heart was made of liquid sunsets.

I feel that by writing I am doing what is far more necessary than anything else.

It appeared that nobody ever said a thing they meant, or ever talked of a feeling they felt, but that was what music was for.

Language is wine upon the lips.

the problem of space remained, she thought, taking up her brush again. It glared at her. The whole mass of the picture was poised upon that weight. Beautiful and bright it should be on the surface, feathery and evanescent, one colour melting into another like the colours on a butterfly's wing; but beneath the fabric must be clamped together with bolts of iron.

And if we can imagine the art of fiction come alive and standing in our midst, she would undoubtedly bid us break her and bully her, as well as honour and love her, for so her youth is renewed and her sovereignty assured.

And now more than anything I want beautiful prose. I relish it more and more exquisitely.

Freedom and fullness of expression are of the essence of the art.

Why then did she do it? She looked at the canvas, lightly scored with running lines. It would be hung in the servants' bedrooms. It would be rolled up and stuffed under a sofa. What was the good of doing it then, and she heard some voice saying she couldn't paint, saying she couldn't create, as if she were caught up in one of those habitual currents in which after a certain time experience forms in the mind, so that one repeats words without being aware any longer who originally spoke them.

I spent an hour looking at pots and carpets in the museums the other day, until the desire to describe them became like the desire for the lusts of the flesh.