Quotes About Art

He felt that there is a loose balance of good and evil, and that the art of living consists in getting the greatest good out of the greatest evil.

Reading a piece of poetry with no beat in front of 20 people is way more challenging than rocking for 10 000 people.

Sampling is kind of prehistoric, given the technology and the textures you can create.

Our truest response to the irrationality of the world is to paint or sing or write, for only in such response do we find truth.

I like the fact that in ancient Chinese art the great painters always included a deliberate flaw in their work: human creation is never perfect.

When the bright angel dominates, out comes a great work of art, a Michelangelo David or a Beethoven symphony.

How does a copy become more than a copy? Is art the creation of something new and original, or simply the continuous enlargement, or the distillation, of an observation that came before

Without the musician, all life would be loneliness.

How does a copy become more than a copy? Is art the creation of something new and original, or simply the continuous enlargement, or the distillation, of an observation that came before? What answer would my father give?

It embarassed her ow, the way she bruned candles so unthikingly, gazing at words that seemed to hide ideas, or ideas inexpressible in words, how the sentences had carried her forwards like a river or a piece of music. And yet how close the truth had seemed back then. She had been twenty-four years old and she had fallen in love.

His sonata for piano and violin, he first piece of music he had written in twenty-three years, was finished, he could not do more. He made a clean copy, isnged his name and wrote the date, May, 27, 1989, and the title, The Sun Shines on the People's Square. He put the copy in an envelope to send to Kai. [...] He saw himself walking out of the room, this alleyway, this city, without turning back. The following morning, he put on his uniform and returned to work

You make the rarest canvas, love

The words slid into me, smooth as a polished knife.

His eyes were brown and warm as summer earth. His words were simple. They had no art to them, which of course was also art. He always knew how to show himself to best advantage.

It was easy to see how such lovely things might become songs.

You cannot make that promise, I wanted to shout. You know nothing. But whose fault was that? I had kept the face of the world veiled from him. I had painted his history in bright, bold colors, and he had fallen in love with my art. And now it was too late to go back and change it. If I was so old, I should be wise. I should know better than to howl when the bird was already flown.

Do you always make beautiful things for those you are angry with?

I had painted his history in bright, bold colours and he had fallen in love with my art. And now it was too late to go back and change it.

When sculptors shape their stone, they shape it after him.

I felt him looking at me, admiring his work. He had not carved me like this, but he was imagining doing it. A beautiful statue, named The Supplicant.

But is this not what poetry must do? To say the nothing that cannot be said?

You design the vulgar pots and sell them to the vulgar people. When you start believing them, you become fraudulent, Miss Nina. You make a plausible adjustment to the facts of life. I don't. And that isn't a virtue on my part. It's the disease of permanent adolescence. Honey, when you take your tongue out of your cheek, you become suspect.

Print so easily spins a web of the commonplace over the fine outlines of life.

What passion cannot music raise or quell