painter

Write the masterpiece that has not been written.Sing the masterpiece that has not been sung.Paint the masterpiece that has not been painted.Create the masterpiece that has not been created.

I have loved enough women to know how to paint.If I had loved fewer, I would be an illustrator; if I had loved more, I would be a poet.

I became an artist because I wanted to be an active participant in the conversation about art.

In many times, after creating a piece of work I want to stand up and applaud.

There are no lines in nature, only areas of colour, one against another.

I had spent many years living with a plain piece of canvas just right on my face as a headboard for my bed. As the years passed by, I watched it slowly transforming into a work of art which still lives above my head. And that my friend, is truly living art.

For me, a paint brush is the only tool I use extensively in my works, to push paint on canvas and conduct melodies. And that's exactly what Garden Avenue is, and all of my projects after that.

Well, I'm a painter, I was trained as a painter_I seem to have spent a little less time painting than I might've done_But it didn't transcend the feeling of playing at UFO and those sort of places with the lights and that, the fact that the group was getting bigger and bigger.

As a kid I never knew what I wanted to be when I grow up, but the only thing I knew was that I wanted to create things. And then I wanted to be an astronaut. I would paint stars and the atmosphere and then frame and hang the universe up on my bedroom wall. A few years down the line while I was still stargazing, I came to realize that I__ halfway around the world chasing something and the whole time it__ in my backyard. From the very beginning I was who I always wanted to be.

I have never found a painter more beautiful than his paintings nor a writer who was more expressive than his works. While one got his hands dirty, other made the paper dirty to create masterpieces!

A paint brush is the only tool I use extensively in my works, to push paint on canvas and conduct melodies. And that's exactly what Garden Avenue is, and all of my projects after that.

Now is not the time for bigots and racists. No time for sexists and homophobes. Now, more than ever, is the time for ARTISTS. It__ time for us to rise above and to create. To show humanity. To spread hope. We must prevent society from destroying itself, from losing its way. Now is the time for love.

To live is to paint, it is to create; but while we are painting, we are being painted, being created as well!

Life is a wave of love for a lover, a gift for a giver, a drama for an actor, and a canvas for a painter.

The painter does not conceive himself as existing in himself, he conceives himself as a reflection of the objects he has put into his pictures and he lives in the reflections of his pictures, a writer, a serious writer, conceives himself as existing by and in himself, he does not at all live in the reflection of his books, to write he must first of all exist in himself, but for a painter to be able to paint, the painting must first of all be done.

Leave me to die a lonely death. An artist__ death. A writer__ playground. A painter__ background. A philosopher__ bread and butter.An endeavor that we all face. I just hope that I__ not the only one there.

It was a tribute to Raphael that lesser artists wanted to copy his work, but this_ this was a travesty. The fresco consisted of Galatea__ apotheosis, wherein she is surrounded by mythical creatures. A beautiful scene, with all the potential in the world, but very poorly executed here. Galatea herself looked vapid and empty. The rest of the painting indicated pure ignorance on the part of the painter. I shook my head in confusion. The giant Polyphemus was depicted with two normal eyes, when clearly he ought to have but one. Triton, for his horn, was using not a shell but an actual trumpet of brass. I nearly laughed aloud at that observation; would not such an instrument be completely destroyed by seawater? Who the devil had painted this monstrosity?

Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?