Quotes About Perception

He took twelve pictures that day. Within a few days he showed me the contact sheet. "This one has the magic," he said. When I look at it now, I never see me. I see us.

It seemed as if the whole of the world was slowly being stripped of innocence. Or maybe I was seeing a little too clearly.

The trouble with dreaming is that we eventually wake up.

Nobody sees as we do, Patti" he said again. Whenever he said things like that, for a magical space of time, it was as if we were the only two people in the world.

Robert was concerned with how to make the photograph, and I with how to be the photograph.

What is nothing? I impetuously asked. -It is what you can see of your eyes without a mirror, was the answer.

As far as I'm concerned, being any gender is a drag.

I was there for these moments, but so young and preoccupied with my own thoughts that I hardly recognized them as moments.

I may not know what is in your mind, but I know how your mind works.

A real prison breakfast" I said. "Yeah, but we are free." And that summed it up.

Some dreams aren't dreams at all, just another angle of physical reality.

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.

often contradiction is the clearest way to truth.

Perhaps there is no past or future, only the perpetual present that contains this trinity of memory.

You don't see things like that. You feel them, as in all important things; they arrive, they come into your dreams.

Americans just don't know what being a movie star's all about.

The child, mystified by the commonplace, moves effortlessly into the strange..

I clawed through a thick web of the culture's consciousness that I hadn't known existed.

It is said that children do not distinguish between living and inanimate objects; I believe they do. A child imparts a doll or tin soldier with magical life-breath. The artist animates his work as the child his toys.

My penance for barely being present in the world, not the world between the pages of books, or the layered atmosphere of my own mind, but the world that is real to others

I have smoothed the hem of the robe of Parsifal. Watched Giotto's sheep wander from a fresco. Prayed before holy icons unveiled, surviving time. Held shavings swept from the hut of Geppetto. Unzipped a body bag and beheld the face of my brother. Witnessed the acolyte scatter petals over a dying poet. I saw the smoke of incense form the shape of my days. I saw my love return to God. I saw things as they are.

Nos miramos las manos, que teníamos cogidas. Respiramos hondo y aceptamos nuestra complicidad, no en el robo, sino en la destrucción de una obra de arte. –Al menos, ellos no lo tendrán nunca –dijo. –¿Quiénes son ellos? –pregunté. –Cualquiera excepto nosotros –respondió.

Through it all we held fast to the concept of the clock with no hands. Tasks were completed, sump pumps manned, sandbags piled, trees planted, shirts ironed, hems stitched, and yet we reserved the right to ignore the hands that kept on turning.

Oh take their picture," said the woman to her bemused husband, "I think they're artists." "Oh, go on," he shrugged. "They're just kids.