It's despair at the lack of feeling, of love, of reason in the world. It's despair that anyone can even contemplate the idea of dropping a bomb or ordering that it should be dropped. It's despair that so few of us care. It's despair that there's so m...
When you draw something it lives and when you photograph it it dies
Art's cruel. You can get away with murder with words. But a picture is like a window straight through to your inmost heart.
Do you know that every great thing in the history of art and every beautiful thing in life is actually what you call nasty or has been caused by feelings that you would call nasty? By passion, by love, by hatred, by truth. Do you know that?
But however good you get at translating personality into line or paint it's no go if your personality isn't worth translating.
They pay thousands and thousands for the Van Goghs and Modiglianis they'd have spat on at the time they were painted. Guffawed at. Made coarse jokes about.
He said, one has to learn that painting well - in the academic and technical sense - comes right at the bottom of the list. I mean, you've got that ability. So have thousands.
I just think of things as beautiful or not. Can't you understand? I don't think of good or bad. Just of beautiful or ugly. I think a lot of nice things are ugly and a lot of nasty things are beautiful.
You’re beautiful. If you believe it, they’ll believe it.
I am one in a row of specimens. It's when I try to flutter out of line that he hates me. I'm meant to be dead, pinned, always the same, always beautiful. He knows that part of my beauty is being alive. but it's the dead me he wants. He wants me livin...
We girls are prewired to like things that make you suffer.
I have a strange illusion quite often. I think I've become deaf. I have to make a little noise to prove I'm not. I clear my throat to show myself that everything is normal. It's like the little Japanese girl they found in the ruins of Hiroshima. Ever...
Creative is my god. Technology my cherished lover.
It's despair at the lack of (I'm cheating, I didn't say all these things - but I'm going to write what I want to say as well as what I did) feeling, of love, of reason in the world. It's despair that anyone can even contemplate the idea of dropping a...
Alive. Alive in the way that death is alive.
Someone should have warned me about love's dark underbelly, about the rejection and despair.
Fictional people are people, too, otherwise why would we care what happens to them?
I must fight with my weapons. Not his. Not selfishness and brutality and shame and resentment.
