art

Sometimes I defy flower anatomy & other times I try and replicate it intricately!

A painting is worth a thousand confused art-gallery visitors.

Ha! spring arrived on her sweet scented palanquin,carried by the spirited Zephyrus and his coir with their murmuring music undulated in its own softness and fondled the leaves to astir.

If you construct a room in paint, you haunt it. Your life rests in every stroke. So paint only the rooms that you can bear to occupy forever. Or paint the stars instead.

Let's make room for the kind of art that challenges us, pushes boundaries, stirs and inspires, and takes our breath away with its uniqueness. Let's reconnect with our artist souls and trust that if we make good art, we'll make good money.

I freeze, my feet suddenly glued to the floor. It takes me a minute to gather the courage to turn around, but when I do, I immediately wish I hadn't. The boy is standing in the doorway at the end of the hall.Why is he here again? I barely allow myself time to ask the question before I move. Panicked, I turn and run back downstairs as fast as I can."Hey! Wait!" he calls after me.I don't stop.

It is a dangerous thing to substitute reading or writing for living. Live first, then write.

It's clever, but is it art?

In those glorious moments when someone sees, really sees, your art and bothers to tell you so, relish it!

To see things as the poet sees them I must share his consciousness and not attend to it; I must look where he looks and not turn round to face him; I must make of him not a spectacle but a pair of spectacles; in fine, as Professor Alexander would say, I must enjoy him and not contemplate him.

I grab the nearest lamppost when my knees threaten to give out, panting for breath as the words rip through me

I think, Charlie, you have talent. I do. But I don't think you'll get far until you examine yourself and study.Until you let yourself be your subject. That's the exquisiteness of youth: you are allowed the luxury of vanity, of self-examination. Take it! Don't be ashamed of yourself.

The Art of Muses is the Bridge of Feeling.

Creativity abides no absolutes.

The writer does want to be published; the painter urgently hopes that someone will see the finished canvas (van Gogh was denied the satisfaction of having his work bought and appreciated during his lifetime; no wonder the pain was more than he could bear); the composer needs his music to be heard. Art is communication, and if there is no communication it is as though the work has been stillborn.

People are not alone in making art. Even the smallest animals can create things of beauty. Even the smallest animals have power and can help set things right in the world. Beautiful things are being made all the time and can still work great wonders. A tiny web of silk, a small jar of earth, can hold a glowing ember of the sun to help light the world.

Take a newspaper.Take some scissors.Choose from this paper an article of the length you want to make your poem.Cut out the article.Next carefully cut out each of the words that makes up this article and put them all in a bag.Shake gently.Next take out each cutting one after the other.Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.The poem will resemble you.And there you are -- an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.

The function of the artist is to disturb. His duty is to arouse the sleeper, to shake the complacent pillars of the world. He reminds the world of its dark ancestry, and shows the world its present and points the way to its new birth. He is at once the product and preceptor of his times.