83 Quotes About Painter

Look at this one.” I picked up a small painting of a man with dark hair and a short, dark beard. He wore a loose shirt, cobalt blue, unbuttoned at the top, showing a prominent, knobby collarbone. He looked…complicated and hungry. She’d captured him focused intensely on a book, his face pressed against a wall like he was resting. Or waiting.

They were both young men under thirty. Art is not so precocious as literature, and does not send quite so many early potatoes into the market, so that the age of thirty is considered young enough for a painter to have learnt his business sufficiently to be marketable from the picture-dealing point of view. ("The Phantom Model")

A good bus rider likes to take the bus, looking out the window, talking to others on the way. The trip on the bus is fun; it is not just about getting there. A good painter tries to think about what she is feeling inside her imagination, her thoughts. It is not just about painting what something looks like. A good science student likes thinking about ideas, tries to find out how things work. It is not just about learning one tiny piece of the universe.

Life is a craft no one masters. But we will see an abundance of amazing colors, beautiful views and stunning insights along the way.

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’s 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.

Our jobs determine what we deem more important: a painter is likely to claim that he or she would rather be deaf than be blind, whereas a singer is likely to claim the opposite.

You too know that all my eyes see, all I touch with myself, from any distance, is Diego. The caress of fabrics, the color of colors, the wires, the nerves, the pencils, the leaves, the dust, the cells, the war and the sun, everything experienced in the minutes of the non-clocks and the non-calendars and the empty non-glances, is him.

We made love again. This time it was me who asked. Lying there again, on the bed, this time with heat, almost an oven heat, coming through the screen, and sweat instead of tears, I wondered how simple we really are. That we can do the same things again and again and again and find them interesting, even fascinating and seek the repetition with a hunger as avid. How fishing was like that, and painting.

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.