I’d love to try to sell a blank white canvas to an art dealer. And when he asks what it is, I’d tell him, “It’s a landscape painting of Key West, from the perspective of an optimistic blind man.
We’re different, you and I. I am a Rorschach Test, and you, you are a butterfly. No, wait, you are a bat. Actually, you are the Galapagos Islands. Or perhaps you are a failed Pollack painting.
If I asked people how many people there are in the world, I’ll bet more than half would reply, “More than half.” True, but would they also know Georgia is a state, a country, and a painter?
Artists have to have a good eye. And to be great, I'd recommend having two.
If science took my IQ and spread it evenly among the world's population, like mental mayonnaise, we'd have more art, less war, and higher cholesterol.
If I could go back in time, I'd love to whisper sweet nothings in Van Gogh's ear, but not while it was attached to his head.
Art is like a kite with an airplane propeller, OK? Artists are like people who have scuba tanks for lungs, OK? And critics are like a box of forgotten leftovers in my fridge from a few years ago, except they’re not as welcome at my dinner table, OK...
The mountains are where God proves He’s better than Michelangelo at sculpting.
Your impression of me is different than my impression of me. But that’s OK, because your impression is impressionistic, like a Monet painting, while mine is realistic, like a Rembrandt.
I collect hair. I keep most of it on my floor, but my most valuable patches I display on the bodies of a few cats I have roaming my house like walking art displays that meow.
I’m an artist. I’m a cave painter. Archaeologists and art critics of the future are going to call me a genius. They’re going to say I was so far ahead of my time that I was way behind my time.
I made art out of all the phone numbers on napkins I’ve had over the years. So it was just one napkin, and I wiped my mouth with it after I was done.
I could never be a chef, because I could ‘t bare the thought of my art always turning to shit.
If I could capture the rays of the sun in a can, I'd paint a canvas with it and have you look at my work until the memory of my work was burned in your mind and your retinas burned out.
Chivalry, stimulating conversations, everything is said to be a lost art nowadays. But nothing is a lost art, unless it’s a sunken statue—in a river of lava.
Batman’s cape would make a great canvas for a cave painting.
We’re not so different, you and I. Sure, we may have different religious beliefs, political outlooks, sexual orientations, economic viewpoints, and artistic/literary/culinary tastes, but deep down we both want the same thing: To be loved by a beaut...
I wish art was like money in that the more I made, the more interest it developed and plentiful it became. Money makes money, and if art made art, there’s no prison in this country that could hold my creations.
If I took a candy bar, ripped off the wrapper, ate the candy bar, and pinned the wrapper to the wall, is that art, performance art, both, or neither?
I am a single drop of blood trying to mix in with billions of red paint splatters in this Pollack painting called life. I think the cops are trying to frame me.
My hand inside a glove is like a painting in a frame, and should be insured as such. The things my hand makes have immense value, so how much more valuable is the thing that makes the things?
