Quotes About Art

Me asustó tanta belleza, porque la belleza es la mezcla de lo hermoso y lo terrible.

And all at once it was as it had been before, on that gusty August day during the war, and she was twenty-three years old again, with holes in her sneakers, and Papa sitting beside her. And Richard walked in; into the gallery and into their lives. And Papa told him, They will come...to paint the warmth of the sun and the colour of the wind. And that was how it had all begun.

arranged, and cut and

For it did seem to be the case, she reflected, that the owners of art galleries were very frequently men who were unable to use ordinary language with any precision and who walked about in a horrible blizzard of peculiar superlatives and meaningless coinages from which they tried to shelter themselves by a wild flailing of their hands.

What mattered was writing it: the act of words.

Popart was oorspronkelijk bedoeld als een belediging, maar al in 1963 moest Lichtensteien in een interview vaststellen dat het moeilijk was een schilderij te maken dat de mensen niet aan de wand zouden willen hangen: alles werd aan de wand gehangen, de mensen zouden eraan gewend raken. Zelfs tegen de alom afgewezen commerciële kunst was men niet haatdragend genoeg.

I wish that, at the end of life, when things were truly done, there was something to look forward to. Something more pleasure-oriented. Perhaps opium, or heroin. So you become addicted. So what? All-you-can-eat ice cream parlors for the extremely aged. Big art pictures books and music. EXTREME palliative care, for when you've had it with everything else: the x-rays, the MRIs, the boring food, and the pills that don't do anything at all. Would that be so bad?

Escribir es algo más que eso, es urdir, tejer, zurcir palabras, no importa si es una receta médica o una pieza de ficción. La diferencia es que la ficción consume cuerpo y alma.

Mucho antes de Cristo había en Grecia un poeta que decía: Tengo un gran arte, hiero duramente a aquellos que me hieren. Mi arte es más grande aún: quiero a aquellos que me quieren".

Como dissemos em nosso manifesto, a música não é absolutamente a mesma em todas as nações. Sujeita às grandes regras da arte, ela se modifica no estilo e no gosto em cada nação, segundo as inspirações da natureza do país, os costumes, a índole e as tendências do povo.

I am trying to add a book -that i am reading now. In spanisch- Schiller o la invención del idealismo alemán Best regards Jorge

Les métaphysiciens sont des musiciens sans dons musicaux.

Metaphysiker sind Musiker ohne musikalische Fähigkeit.

The pyramids will perish in the course of the centuries but the ideas which gave them birth will develop onwards. The cathedral of today will take another form. Raphael's pictures will fall into dust but the soul of Raphael and the ideas which his creations represent will be living powers forever. The Art of today will be the Nature of tomorrow and will blossom again in her. Thus does Involution become Evolution.

And the first rude sketch that the world has seen was joy to his mighty heart, Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, It's pretty, but is it art?

He drew from under the table a sheet of strangely scented yellow-Chinese paper, the brushes, and slab of India ink. In cleanest, severest outline he had traced the Great Wheel with its six spokes, whose centre is the conjoined Hog, Snake, and Dove (Ignorance, Anger, and Lust), and whose compartments are all the heavens and hells, and all the chances of human life.

When the flicker of London's sun falls faint on the club-room's green and gold, The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mold— They scratch with their pens in the mold of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start When the Devil mutters behind the leaves: It's pretty, but is it art?

He said, Yeah, well, artists are a lot like gangsters. They both know that the official version, the one everyone else believes, is a lie.

only my art held me back. Ah, it seemed impossible to leave the world until I had produced all that I felt was within me, and so I spared this wretched life.

If his medium had been words instead of war, he would have been a poet.

No writer, even the most proficient, could re-enact in words the flow of a life lived.

Let me tell you something about poetry, young schoolboy. Poetry is a problem of form and emptiness. Ze moment I put one word onto an empty page, I hef created a problem for myself. Ze poem that emerges is form, trying to find a solution to my problem.

I don't know how to explain it, except that this one is like playing origami with time.

Let me tell you something about poetry, young schoolboy. Poetry is a problem of form and emptiness. Ze moment I put one word onto an empty page, I hef created a problem for myself. Ze poem that emerges is form, trying to find a solution to my problem." He sighed. "In ze end, of course, there are no solutions. Only more problems, but this is a good thing. Without problems, there would be no poems.