Quotes About Art

The hardest part of training a painter is showing him how to introduce emotion into his work,

The art does not always mimic the artist. You never know the real person until you slide beneath their surface

thirty-one thumbprints on the construction paper, so the class was very large

My writing is soaked with the tears of my heart, An invisible rebellion that no man can see. Let our life stories become tragic art. Oh, Mama, oh, sisters, hear me, hear me.

I started thinking about how to draw her, how I'd capture all the things I saw in just those few moments that our lives intersected. Faces are so hard because they are more than lines and shadows. They are about light, but a light that comes from inside and shines out.

The girl with the pictures on her skin

restaurants. Bailey liked New York City better before its Disney-fication, when it was still messy and dangerous, full of style, outrage, art, underground clubs. When you might easily get mugged on the Bowery, or offered drugs on Tenth Street, or propositioned in the Meatpacking District. Now things were homogenized, gentrified. Safer, prettier, Instagrammable. Better, some would no doubt say. But not real, somehow. Somehow packaged and sold. The idea of New York City, the dream of it.

The watercolor sky—silver fading to blue fading to black, the high slice of moon and glimmering stars—reminded her that she'd always wanted to paint but didn't know how, was in some ways afraid of the idea of putting brush to canvas, of making a mark that couldn't be erased. The idea that she might create something that was laughable, pitiable, or silly had stopped her from ever taking a class or even buying paints. Foolish. It was foolish.

Pointing and clicking like Annie Leibovitz

She'd be doing it strictly out of love for the craft—not for the claps that came with.

The muse in charge of fantasy wears good, sensible shoes.

In an age that seems to be increasingly dehumanized, when people can be transformed into non-persons, and where a great deal of our adult art seems to diminish our lives rather than add to them, children's literature insists on the values of humanity and humaneness.

The art is more important than the artist. The work is more important than the person who does it. You must be prepared to sacrifice all the you could possibly have, be, or do; you must be willing to go all the way for your art. If it is a question between choosing between your life and a work of art -- any work of art -- your decision is made for you.

On the level of high art, in their common efforts to express human truths, relationships, attitudes, and personal visions, children's literature and adult literature meet and sometimes merge, and we wonder then whether a given work is truly for children or truly for grown-ups. The answer, of course, is: for both.

The vitality of art is its capacity for infinite expansion. One form doesn't preclude another any more than the existence of Mozart makes the existence of Bach superfluous.

My joy is in the craft, not the gain.

The important thing is that another medium—stage, film, music—doesn't obliterate a book. The movie is here now, on a big screen, with stars and costumes and a score. But the book hasn't gone away. It has simply grown up, grown larger, and begun to glisten in a new way.

He remembered that in the art books he had leafed through at Leader's, many paintings depicted death. A severed head on a platter. A battle, and the ground strewn with bodies. Swords and spears and fire; and nails being pounded into the tender flesh of a man's hands. Painters had preserved such pain through beauty.

Some books had shiny pages that showed paintings of landscapes unlike anything Matty had ever seen, or of people costumed in odd ways, or of battles, and there were many quiet painted scenes of a woman holding a newborn child.

It was so - oh, I wish language were more precise! The red was so beautiful!

Yes, she dyes the threads and then she makes pictures from them. No one else can do it. She has like a magic touch, they say. And they want her for that." "She would be honored in Village.

His outflung hands traced over the threads of his rug, passed loop by loop through some patient woman's hands. Or maybe she hadn't been patient. Maybe she'd been tired, or irritated, or distracted, or hungry, or angry. Maybe she had been dying. But her hands had kept moving, all the same.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

Ilka's triangle of pizza behaved like Dali's watch and kept folding away from her mouth.