Quotes About Art

Ciò di cui un clown ha bisogno è tregua, la finzione di ciò che gli altri chiamano tempo libero. Ma questi altri non capiscono che la finzione del tempo libero per un clown consiste appunto nel dimenticare il suo lavoro, e non lo capiscono proprio perché loro si occupano della cosiddetta arte proprio durante il loro tempo libero.

Táblákat kellene állítani a kortárs regények elé: ideköltözni tilos, letelepedni tilos, itt berendezkedni tilos. Aki szilárd talajt akar a lába alá, annak sokkal több kell, mint amit az irodalom és m?vészet valaha is nyújthat.

One thing is certain, anyone who collects art is not an artist.

I seldom have a firm plot or any idea at all about the ending. But there is a clear, almost mathematically conceptual idea that determines length--the length or brevity of a literary work being comparable to the size of the frame needed by a picture.

When I am asked how or why I wrote this or that, I always find myself quite embarrassed. I would gladly furnish not merely the questioner, but myself as well, with an exhaustive answer, but can never do so. I cannot recreate the context in its entirety, yet I wish that I could, so that at least the literature I myself make might be made slightly less of a mysterious process than bridge-building and bread-baking.

Where words leave off, music begins.

Mathematics and music are at the opposite poles of the human spirit. These two antipodes confine and determine all creative and spiritual activity of a human being. Whatever is done by humanity in the art-and-science domain is placed in-between.

Everyone is aware of the fact that visual and auditive perspective are identical; the only difference being that they are created and perceived by two physically different organs, the eye and the ear. How often the playing of a great master makes us think of a picture with a deep background and varying planes; the figures in the foreground almost leap out of the frame whereas in the background the mountains and clouds are lost in a blue haze.

I didn't originally intend to be an artist; I was much more interested in decorative arts--daily life, beautiful objects.

The master swordsman isn't interested in killing people. He only wants to perfect his art.

Reflected, framed, the room had charms foreign to the original, just as an ordinary or even ugly object gains beauty and dignity when painted or photographed.

People live for love. They kill for love. They die for love. They have songs, poems, novels, sculptures, paintings, myths, legends. It's one of the most powerful brain systems on Earth for both great joy and great sorrow.

A really good picture looks as if it's happened at once. It's an immediate image....

Sometimes it seems to me that, in the end, the only thing people have got going for them is imagination. At times of great darkness, everything around us becomes symbolic, poetic, archetypal. Perhaps this is what dreaming, and art, are for.

You'd die of shame at the thought of showing anyone what you'd written. Somebody somewhere says that 'the urge to preserve is the basis of all art'. Unaware of this thought, you keep a diary. You keep it not only because it gratifies your urge to sling words around, everyday with impunity, but because without it, you will lose your life, ts detail will leak away into the sand and be gone forever.

I cry out for order and find it only in art.

the poetic moment is a static one. It's watching through a window while the action happens elsewhere. And then the poet turns away from the window because the poem is done ... It cannot unflinchingly stare grief down. At some point, by necessity, or design, it must turn away.

Since I'm inarticulate, I express myself with images.

Stimulus: opera. Response: kill.

Das gute alte England existiert nur in der Vorstellung - ein Land, das aus Wörtern, Holzschnitten, Filmen, Gemälden und pittoresken Stichen zusammengezimmert ist.

I collected pictures and I drew pictures and I looked at the pictures by myself. And because no one else ever saw them, the pictures were perfect and true. They were alive.

She looked at the last thing she had written and she felt calm. Then she crossed the words out vehemently, scribbling until even the shape of the sentence was destroyed.

She didn't look into the mirror itself. She was becoming someone, it seemed. She had read somewhere that you only became a woman once your mother had died. But that wasn't what worried her. She worried about becoming as perfect as the person shown to her on paper in Lily's studio.

challenge, the way anything that came under discussion could be claimed or rejected by either side. Time and time again the power of an idea or a piece of art was assessed by either its beauty or its technique or its usefulness, and time and time again my wife was surprised by how rarely anything on earth satisfies all three camps." He