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Read through the most famous quotes by topic #art
"Then, winking at him, I passed my tongue over the top, and all around the ice cream at the rim of the cone, filling my whole mouth and, just to look sexy, also licking the tips of my fingers. Then I came around the counter, swaying my hips real pretty, and steadying myself over the wobbly high heels. I came right up to him, and before he could guess what kind of trouble I had cooked up in my head, I kissed him—so sweet and so long—on his lips, to the shouts and outcries of the offended customer..." Anita, in Apart From Love ↗
#love
Our senses and emotions are the great source of inspiration for creating compelling and interesting art pieces (books included). Each art piece, be it a book, a song, a painting, a photograph or a product should touch our senses and evoke emotions. Emotionless art lacks purpose and interest. ↗
#books #emotions #inspiration #purpose #art
I will not mention the name (and what bits of it I happen to give here appear in decorous disguise) of that man, that Franco-Hungarian writer... I would rather not dwell upon him at all, but I cannot help it— he is surging up from under my pen. Today one does not hear much about him; and this is good, for it proves that I was right in resisting his evil spell, right in experiencing a creepy chill down my spine whenever this or that new book of his touched my hand. The fame of his likes circulates briskly but soon grows heavy and stale; and as for history it will limit his life story to the dash between two dates. Lean and arrogant, with some poisonous pun ever ready to fork out and quiver at you, and with a strange look of expectancy in his dull brown veiled eyes, this false wag had, I daresay, an irresistible effect on small rodents. Having mastered the art of verbal invention to perfection, he particularly prided himself on being a weaver of words, a title he valued higher than that of a writer; personally, I never could understand what was the good of thinking up books, of penning things that had not really happened in some way or other; and I remember once saying to him as I braved the mockery of his encouraging nods that, were I a writer, I should allow only my heart to have imagination, and for the rest rely upon memory, that long-drawn sunset shadow of one’s personal truth. I had known his books before I knew him; a faint disgust was already replacing the aesthetic pleasure which I had suffered his first novel to give me. At the beginning of his career, it had been possible perhaps to distinguish some human landscape, some old garden, some dream- familiar disposition of trees through the stained glass of his prodigious prose... but with every new book the tints grew still more dense, the gules and purpure still more ominous; and today one can no longer see anything at all through that blazoned, ghastly rich glass, and it seems that were one to break it, nothing but a perfectly black void would face one’s shivering soul. But how dangerous he was in his prime, what venom he squirted, with what whips he lashed when provoked! The tornado of his passing satire left a barren waste where felled oaks lay in a row, and the dust still twisted, and the unfortunate author of some adverse review, howling with pain, spun like a top in the dust. ↗
A true artist willingly removes their heart, allows constructive criticism to stomp it, then puts it back--bruised and aching--to continue improving due to the all-consuming obsessive love for their art. ↗
Durante a rápida estação em que a mulher permanece em flor, os caracteres da sua beleza servem admiravelmente bem à dissimulação à qual a sua fraqueza natural e as leis sociais a condenam. Sob o rico colorido do seu viçoso rosto, sob o fogo dos seus olhos, sob a fina textura das suas feições tão delicadas, com tantas linhas curvas ou retas, mas puras e perfeitamente determinadas, todas as suas comoções podem permanecer secretas: o rubor então nada revela, aumentando ainda mais cores já tão vivas; todos os focos interiores concordam tão bem com a luz desses olhos brilhantes de vida que a fugaz chama de um sofrimento aparece apenas como um encanto a mais. Por isso, na da há mais discreto do que um rosto juvenil, porque também não há nada mais imóvel. A fisionomia de uma jovem tem a serenidade, o polido, o frescor da superfície de um lago; a das mulheres só se revela aos trinta anos. Até essa idade, o pintor só lhes acha no rosto róseos e brancos sorrisos e expressões que repetem um mesmo pensamento, pensamento de mocidade e de amor, pensamento uniforme e sem profundidade; mas, na velhice, tudo na mulher fala, as paixões incrustaram-se-lhe no rosto; foi amante, esposa, mãe; as mais violentas expressões de alegria e de dor acabaram por alterar-lhe, torturar-lhe o rosto, formando aí mil rugas, tendo todas uma linguagem; e uma fronte de mulher torna-se, então, sublime pelo horror, bela pela melancolia, ou magnífica pela serenidade; se se permite desenvolver esta estranha metáfora, o lago seco deixa então ver todos os traços das torrentes que o produzi ram; uma fronte de mulher velha já então não pertence nem ao mundo, que, frívolo, se assusta de ver a destruição de todas as idéias de elegância a que está habituado, nem aos artistas vulgares, que nada descobrem por aí; mas, sim, aos verdadeiros poetas, àqueles que possuem o sentimento de uma beleza independente de todas as convenções sobre as quais repousam tantos preconceitos sobre a arte e a formosura. ↗
#art
