Canvases Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
i-work-as-diligently-on-my-canvases-as-laborers-do-in-their-fields-vincent-van-gogh
if-there-were-only-one-truth-you-couldnt-paint-a-hundred-canvases-on-the-same-theme
the-reason-for-my-painting-large-canvases-is-that-i-want-to-be-intimate-human-mark-rothko
think-me-getting-up-before-6-im-at-work-by-7-i-continue-until-630-in-evening-standing-up-all-time-nine-canvases-its-murderous-claude-monet
a-world-colors-on-palette-remaining-wandering-on-canvases-still-emerging-wassily-kandinsky
in-art-canvases-draw-answers-withdraw-silence-hidden-lamps-illumination-goitsemang-sandra-mvula
these-women-stared-out-from-canvases-with-arched-brows-enormous-eyes-tiny-mouths-seeing-much-saying-little-neal-stephenson
well-i-am-ploughing-on-my-canvases-as-they-do-on-their-fields-peasants-it-goes-badly-enough-in-our-profession-in-fact-that-has-always-been-but-at-vincent-van-gogh
treasure-island-is-completed-the-entire-set-seventeen-canvases-without-one-break-in-my-enthusiasm-spirit-better-in-every-quality-than-anything-i-n-c-wyeth
loving-parents-when-passing-on-leave-brushstrokes-love-understanding-on-canvases-our-souls-tom-baker-tom-baker-aka-the-pondering-man
my-little-renoirs-matisse-describes-having-seen-renoir-make-these-tiny-canvases-when-he-had-finished-working-he-would-use-up-color-left-in-his-jean-cocteau
kids-leave-us-go-off-on-their-own-lives-family-members-tell-us-what-they-think-us-animals-cant-do-that-they-really-are-blank-canvases-we-can-project-anything-we-want-onto-them-so
a-young-person-wanting-to-become-artist-might-simply-go-purposefully-dedicatedly-to-his-her-room-with-few-books-thousand-blank-canvases-for-four-robert-genn
etretat-is-becoming-more-more-amazing-now-is-real-moment-beach-with-all-its-fine-boats-it-is-superb-i-am-enraged-not-to-be-more-skillful-in-rendering-all-this-i-would-need-two-ha
think-shakespeare-melville-you-think-thunder-lightning-wind-they-all-knew-joy-creating-in-large-small-forms-on-unlimited-restricted-canvases-these-are-children-gods-ray-bradbury
they-were-wrestling-with-canvases-using-violent-colors-huge-brush-strokes-i-arrived-with-gray-silent-sober-oppressed-paintings-one-critic-said-they-antoni-tapies
i-dont-want-lot-guys-like-me-who-played-game-quite-frankly-i-want-blank-canvases-i-want-people-to-come-in-with-new-ideas-i-dont-want-biases-their-own-experiences-to-be-part-their
i-especially-love-all-instruments-art-inks-pens-paintbrushes-watercolors-oils-fine-papers-canvases-although-i-love-to-mess-around-with-these-tools-objects-i-have-minimal-artistic
when-im-writing-novel-one-things-i-do-is-get-big-poster-boards-theyre-actually-canvases-that-artists-use-and-i-keep-all-characters-names-on-them-if-you-write-big-novel-theres-lot
will-god-someone-give-me-power-to-breathe-my-sigh-into-my-canvases-sigh-prayer-sadness-prayer-salvation-rebirth-marc-chagall
im-out-here-to-bomb-period-thats-what-i-started-for-i-didnt-start-writing-to-go-to-paris-i-didnt-start-writing-to-do-canvases-i-started-writing-to-skeme
FV: Hasn't all art, in a way, submitted to words - reduced itself to the literary... admitted its failure through all the catalogues and criticism, monographs and manifestos - ML: Explanations? FV: Exactly. All the artistry, now, seems expended in the rhetoric and sophistry used to differentiate, to justify its own existence now that so little is left to do. And who's to say how much of it ever needed doing in the first place? [... ] Nothing's been done here but the re-writing of rules, in denial that the game was already won, long ago, by the likes of Duchamp, Arp, or Malevich. I mean, what's more, or, what's less to be said than a single black square? ML: Well, a triangle has fewer sides, I suppose. FV: Then a circle, a line, a dot. The rest is academic; obvious variations on an unnecessary theme, until you're left with just an empty canvas - which I'm sure has been done, too. ML: Franz Kline, wasn't it? Or, Yves Klein - didn't he once exhibit a completely empty gallery? No canvases at all. FV: I guess, from there, to not exhibit anything - to do absolutely nothing at all - would be the next "conceptual" act; the ultimate multimedia performance, where all artforms converge in negation and silence. And someone's probably already put their signature to that, as well. But even this should be too much, to involve an artist, a name. Surely nothing, done by no-one, is the greatest possible artistic achievement. Yet, that too has been done. Long, long ago. Before the very first artists ever walked the earth.

Mort W. Lumsden
fv-hasnt-all-art-in-way-submitted-to-words-reduced-itself-to-literary-admitted-its-failure-through-all-catalogues-criticism-monographs-manifestos-ml-explanations-fv-exactly-all-a
the-ilhalmiut-do-not-fill-canvases-with-their-paintings-inscribe-figures-on-rocks-carve-figurines-in-clay-in-stone-because-in-lives-people-there-is-no-room-for-creation-objects-n
above-all-he-encourages-her-to-paint-nodding-with-approval-at-even-her-most-unusual-experiments-with-color-light-rough-brushwork-she-explains-to-him-that-she-believes-painting-sh
The street sprinkler went past and, as its rasping rotary broom spread water over the tarmac, half the pavement looked as if it had been painted with a dark stain. A big yellow dog had mounted a tiny white bitch who stood quite still. In the fashion of colonials the old gentleman wore a light jacket, almost white, and a straw hat. Everything held its position in space as if prepared for an apotheosis. In the sky the towers of Notre-Dame gathered about themselves a nimbus of heat, and the sparrows - minor actors almost invisible from the street - made themselves at home high up among the gargoyles. A string of barges drawn by a tug with a white and red pennant had crossed the breadth of Paris and the tug lowered its funnel, either in salute or to pass under the Pont Saint-Louis. Sunlight poured down rich and luxuriant, fluid and gilded as oil, picking out highlights on the Seine, on the pavement dampened by the sprinkler, on a dormer window, and on a tile roof on the eŽle Saint-Louis. A mute, overbrimming life flowed from each inanimate thing, shadows were violet as in impressionist canvases, taxis redder on the white bridge, buses greener. A faint breeze set the leaves of a chestnut tree trembling, and all down the length of the quai there rose a palpitation which drew voluptuously nearer and nearer to become a refreshing breath fluttering the engravings pinned to the booksellers' stalls. People had come from far away, from the four corners of the earth, to live that one moment. Sightseeing cars were lined up on the parvis of Notre-Dame, and an agitated little man was talking through a megaphone. Nearer to the old gentleman, to the bookseller dressed in black, an American student contemplated the universe through the view-finder of his Leica. Paris was immense and calm, almost silent, with her sheaves of light, her expanses of shadow in just the right places, her sounds which penetrated the silence at just the right moment. The old gentleman with the light-coloured jacket had opened a portfolio filled with coloured prints and, the better to look at them, propped up the portfolio on the stone parapet. The American student wore a red checked shirt and was coatless. The bookseller on her folding chair moved her lips without looking at her customer, to whom she was speaking in a tireless stream. That was all doubtless part of the symphony. She was knitting. Red wool slipped through her fingers. The white bitch's spine sagged beneath the weight of the big male, whose tongue was hanging out. And then when everything was in its place, when the perfection of that particular morning reached an almost frightening point, the old gentleman died without saying a word, without a cry, without a contortion while he was looking at his coloured prints, listening to the voice of the bookseller as it ran on and on, to the cheeping of the sparrows, the occasional horns of taxis. He must have died standing up, one elbow on the stone ledge, a total lack of astonishment in his blue eyes. He swayed and fell to the pavement, dragging along with him the portfolio with all its prints scattered about him. The male dog wasn't at all frightened, never stopped. The woman let her ball of wool fall from her lap and stood up suddenly, crying out: 'Monsieur Bouvet!

Georges Simenon
the-street-sprinkler-went-past-as-its-rasping-rotary-broom-spread-water-over-tarmac-half-pavement-looked-as-if-it-had-been-painted-with-dark-stain-a-big-yellow-dog-had-mounted-ti
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