A brick could be used in place of a parachute, and a blanket could be used as a permanent wall of a house. In both cases, the skydiver and home dweller would ideally be a politician.
When I was 14, I used to have a calendar on my wall, crossing the days off until I was 15, because the school leaving age was 15. Then three months before I turned 15 they changed the leaving age to 16.
I grew up in a house my parents built together on a mountain in Tennessee. When we moved in, the walls were still going up, we didn't have hot water, and we turned it into an amazing adventure.
I paint digitally now. A pity, in some ways, as the biggest price one pays is that you no longer have a finished piece of physical art to hang on a wall. I miss that terribly.
When works of art are presented like rare butterflies on the walls, they're decontextualized. We admire their beauty, and I have nothing against that, per se. But there is more to art than that.
Just as the development of earth art and installation art stemmed from the idea of taking art out of the galleries, the basis of my involvement with public art is a continuation of wall drawings.
At one point, she'd wanted to hurl the whole breakfast at the wall. And then she'd remember why it was that men had temper tantrums and women didn't: cleanup.
And there they ring the walls, the young, the lithe. The handsome hold the graves they won in Troy; the enemy earth rides over those who conquered.
It's all mirror, mirror on the wall because beauty is power, the same way money is power, the same way a gun is power.
The night belongs to beasts of prey, and always has. It's easy to forget that when you're indoors, protected by light and solid walls.
All my years to this moment All my roads to this wall. All my words to this silence All my pride to this fall. -Songs of Sapphique
I want to meet a guy named Art. I'd take him to a museum, hang him on the wall, criticize him, and leave.
Mark this on your wall and remember it always: The greatest single most powerful enemy to success is success itself.
And so they stood on the walls of the City of Gondor, and a great wind rose and blew, and their hair, raven and golden, streamed out mingling in the air.
Recent studies have shown that approximately 40% of authors are manic depressive. The rest of us just drink.
There is something about the fifteen-year-old mind -- a kind of skin or veil or walling off from feelings not your own.
..he was 'nuts about her', as the parlance of the day had it, as if it were generally recognised that love and madness are adjoining rooms with extremely porous walls.
And when I raised myself to look at the man who’d spoken, I had a feeling of leaving my misery behind me there on the stone wall.
Choose to love. Every time you choose to love instead of withdrawing in hurt you build a bridge instead of building a wall.
My story is a sad and lonely one, and beautiful and lively and joyful. It's not perfect; it is what it is. This is a story. But it is not a fairytale.
How are you still sane?" "Who says I am? I only stopped asking myself the escape question when the walls started to answer me." Shit.
