Quotes About Art

The new artists coming through were very materialistic and Hollywood, not so engaged in communication.

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.

I raided libraries and church bazaars for art books. It was possible then to find beautiful volumes for next to nothing and I happily dwelt in the world of Modigliani, Dubuffet, Picasso, Fra Angelico, and Albert Ryder.

His mission was not to reveal, but to document an aspect of sexuality as art, as it had never been done before.

It occurred to me that I was on a run of suicides. Akutagawa. Dazai. Plath. Death by water, barbiturates, and carbon monoxide poisoning; three fingers of oblivion, outplaying everything.

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

We are guided by roses, the scent of a page.

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

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.

Sentivo di essermi trasformata, toccata dalla rivelazione che l'arte è creata dagli esseri umani, che essere un artista voleva dire vedere ciò che gli altri non potevano vedere. Non avevo prove di possedere la stoffa dell'artista, ma bramavo esserlo con tutta me stessa [...] Mi domandai se meritavo davvero di essere un'artista; non mi preoccupavo delle sofferenze che una vocazione avrebbe comportato, m avevo il terrore di non ricevere la chiamata.

But his service was to art, not to church or country. His beads, dungarees, and sheepskin vest represented not the costume but an expression of freedom.

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

Robert trusted in the law of empathy, by which he could, by his will, transfer himself into an object or a work of art, and thus influence the outer world. He did not feel redeemed by the work he did. He did not seek redemption. He sought to see what others did not, the projection of his imagination.

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 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.

Everything here is a small offense and not of value as art or confession. It is not a whim. It is an attempt to peel another putrid skin.

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

I paced while he slept, ricocheting like a dove skidding the lonely confines of a Joseph Cornell box.

I preferred an artist who transformed his time, not mirrored it.

But it was the work in a hall devoted to Picasso, from his harlequins to Cubism, that pierced me the most. His brutal confidence took my breath away.

Enfim, junto ao mar, onde Deus está em toda parte, lentamente fui me acalmando. Continuei olhando o céu. As nuvens tinham as cores de um Rafael. Uma rosa ferida. Tive a sensação de que ele próprio tinha pintado a nuvem. Você o verá. Você o conhecerá. Você verá a mão dele. Essas palavras me vieram, e eu soube que um dia veria um céu pintado pela mão de Robert.

slowly I discerned a familiar shift in my concentration. That compulsion that prohibits me from completely surrendering to a work of art, drawing me from the halls of a favored museum to my own drafting table. Pressing me to close Songs of Innocence in order to experience, as blake, a glimpse of the divine that may also become a poem. That is the decisive power of a singular work:a call to action. And I, time and again, am overcome with the hubris to believe I can answer that call.

A few hours later, she was back. As she slipped off her slingback heels and rubbed her ankles, she said, "Boy, when he says, 'Come up and see my etchings,' he means 'Come up and see my etchings.