art

As with everything else, the more we separate ourselves from each other, the weaker we become.

All my images are self-portraits, even when I'm not in them.

It seems to me that the pleasure one feels in a work of art is just one thing that one does not have to explain.

Putting our art out there is one of the biggest risks we can take. It's a special kind of vulnerability. It takes guts to be an artist.

Our ability to detect and measure the passage of time is burdensome. The conception and sensation of time bears down upon all of us. It weighs us down; it compresses our souls. There is a variety of ways to escape the dull passage of time or the fearfulness of our accelerating march towards death. We must choose our mechanisms for dealing with the inexorability of time and our finiteness. We can fill our void with work or pleasure, laughter or pain, and fretfulness or courage. We can seek a sense of purposefulness or acknowledge the meaninglessness of life. We can seek to escape the drudgery and pain of life through alcohol, drugs, or pleasure seeking, or by working to support our families and create artistic testaments to our worldly existence.

It's the sketch Edward did of me before he went away, the one he said was fine but didn't want to keep. It's as if he's drawn me not once but twice. In the main drawing I have my head turned to the right. It's so detailed, you can see the tautness of my neck muscles and the arch of my clavicle. But underneath or over that there's a second drawing, barely more than a few jagged, suggestive lines, done with a surprising energy and violence: my head turned the other way, my mouth open in a kind of snarl. The two heads pointing in opposite directions give the drawing a disturbing sense of movement.Which one's the pentimento, and which the finished thing? And why did Edward say there was nothing wrong with it? Did he not want me to see this double image for some reason?

At a certain point you have to leave childish things behind, and one of the childish things is a sense that 'Wow, I can draw' or in my case 'Wow, I can read'... You feel you have what's called a talent, but as you become an adult, if you hope to make things, you have to give up the preoccupation with talent otherwise you'll spend your life painting beautiful pictures of fruit bowls that look like fruit bowls.

Artists are never appreciated at lunchtime," Kelly mumbled as she stuffed her camera into her pocket.

It is fairy dust and wanderlust that guide our hands to create what our hearts desire.

My mother supported my every artistic ambition. I don't wonder why. I'm beyond grateful. But when I think of my grandparents barely surviving the war, I feel so pampered. What an indulgence to be an artist. So this is it, this is all I can offer, to the living and to the dead.

Better farPursue a frivolous trade by serious means,Than a sublime art frivolously.

I don't remember her. But she feels special. There's this hole in my heart every time I draw her; you know, a sick sort of feeling. Like she's someone I lost.

As artists, it is our job to question the rules and ask if they are relevant or outdated, necessary or arbitrary, helpful or oppressive.

Every gesture and every look he gives me takes me by surprise and causes my heart to stutter.

Open spaces sing to my heartof the art of nature and the nature of art.

He smirks, shaking his head and letting his eyes wander. I watch him carefully, wondering what I can say to get him to leave. ____ not leaving until you answer some questions. Plus, I__ holding your sketchbook hostage, so you might want to cooperate._ I raise an eyebrow at him. I guess there isn__ much I can say. __his isn__ a hostage negotiation._ He chuckles half-heartedly as his eyes take me in, almost sizing me up. __ guess I should introduce myself._ He holds a hand out for me to shake. ____ Nathan._ I stare at his hand for a moment. __aylor,_ I reply, meeting his eyes again without taking his hand. He lets his hand fall back to his side. __t least I got you to say something non-hostile._ __ haven__ been hostile,_ I object. His eyebrows shoot up. __h, haven__ you?_ __hy don__ you leave me alone?_ I snap. __eave and don__ come back._ I move passed him, heading for my apartment. He can__ follow and annoy me if I lock the door. __here are you going?_ he demands. I look back over my shoulder and roll my eyes at him, indicating the answer should be obvious: anywhere he isn__. Once inside, I slam the door behind me. __hat was totally not hostile!_ he calls after me, sarcastically. I quickly head for my bedroom door, slamming it, too.

Tweets are not diseased rings of glitchy minds. They__e epigrams, aphorisms, maxims, dictums, taglines, captions, slogans, and adages. Some are art, some are commercial; these are forms with integrity.

The purpose of art is to create heavens to balance the world because there are so many hells in the world, there are wars, tortures and oppressions, there is unhappiness etc.