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Read through the most famous quotes by topic #picasso
ما من رسام آخر تمتع بذيوع الصيت هذا بين مثل هذا العدد الكبير من الناس. إن التفسير التقني لذلك إنما يكمن في وسائط الإعلام الجماهيرية. فما أن يتم انتقاء شخص ما. لسبب أو لآخر، حتى تقوم هذه الوسائط بمضاعفة جمهوره من الألوف إلى الملايين. وفي حالة بيكاسو، عمل هذا التحول على تغيير ثقل شهرته. فهي ليست كشهرة ميليه في فرنسا أو ميليز في إنجلترا قبل ثمانين عاماً. فقد اشتهر هذان لأن لوحتين أو ثلاثًا من أعمالهما نالت حظوة سريعة لدى الجمهور، فاستنسخت عنها الصور وزينت بها ملايين البيوت. إن عنواني اللوحتين كرز الناضخ والملاك كانا أكثر ذيوعًا من اسم الرسام. أما إذا نظرنا إلى الموضوع على صعيد عالمي اليوم فإننا لا نجد أكثر من واحد في المئة ممن يعرفون اسم بيكاسو يستطيع أن يميز لوحة واحدة من لوحاته. ↗
He told me that from now on, everything I did and everything he did was of the utmost importance: any word spoken, the slightest gesture, would take on a meaning, and everything that happened between us would change us continually. 'For that reason,'he said,'I wish I were able to suspend time at this moment and keep things exactly at this point, because I feel this instant is a true beginning. We have a definite but unknown quantity of experience at our disposal. As soon as the hourglass is turned, the sand will begin to run out and once it starts, it cannot stop until it's all gone. That's why I wish I could hold it back at the start. We should make a minimum of gestures, pronounce a minimum of words, even see each other as seldom as possible, if that would prolong things. We don't know how much of everything we have ahead of us so we have to take the greatest precautions not to destroy the beauty of what we have. Everything exists in limited quantity-especially happiness. If a love is to come into being, it is all written down somewhere, and also its duration and content. If you could arrive at the complete intensity the first day, it would be ended the first day. And so if it's something you want so much that you'd like to have it prolonged in time, you must be extremely careful not to make the slightest excessive demand that might prevent it from developing to the greatest extent over the longest period...If the wings of the butterfly are to keep their sheen, you mustn't touch them. We mustn't abuse something which is to bring light into both our lives. Everything else in my life only weighs me down and shuts out the light. This thing wih you seems like a window that is opening up. I want it to remain open... ↗
I paint the way some people write their autobiography. The paintings, finished or not, are the pages of my journal, and as such they are valid. The future will choose the pages it prefers. It's not up to me to make the choice. I have the impression that the time is speading on past me more and more rapidly. I'm like a river that rolls on, dragging with it the trees that grow too close to its banks or dead calves one might have thrown into it or any kind of microbes that develop in it. I carry all that along with me and go on. It's the movement of painting that interests me, the dramatic movement from one effort to the next, even if those efforts are perhaps not pushed to their ultimate end. In some of my paintings I can say with certainty that the effort has been brought to its full weight and its conclusion, because there I have been able to stop the flow of time around me. I have less and less time, and yet I have more and more to say, and what I have to say is,increasingly, something about what goes on in the movement of my thought. I've reached the moment, you see, when the movement of my thought interests me more than the thought itself. ↗
The fact that for a long time Cubism has not been understood and that even today there are people who cannot see anything in it means nothing. I do not read English, an English book is a blank book to me. This does not mean that the English language does not exist. Why should I blame anyone but myself if I cannot understand what I know nothing about?" -Pablo Picasso. ↗
People in coats and ties were milling around the Talley gallery, and on the wall were the minimally rendered still lifes by Giorgio Morandi, most of them no bigger than a tea tray. Their thin browns, ashy grays, and muted blues made people speak softly to one another, as if a shouted word might curdle one of the paintings and ruin it. Bottles, carafes, and ceramic whatnots sat in his paintings like small animals huddling for warmth, and these shy pictures could easily hang next to a Picasso or Matisse without feeling inferior. ↗
