And even if something had once been committed to paper, did it mean that it was still true? true? Unlike the relative permanence of paint, words were temporal. You uttered them and they evanesced, but if you wrote them, they remained, though whether ...
I've become like one of those people I hate, the sort who go to the museum and, instead of looking at the magnificent Brueghel, take a picture of it, reducing it from art to proof. It's not "Look what Brueghel did, painted this masterpiece" but "Look...
Whenever someone says some- thing about us, it gets written inside us, permanently. The good words, the ugly words, it’s all right here.” I placed a palm against my chest. “Sure, you can scribble out the words or try to paint over them, but ben...
Thinking back to my time with Tad on this lake, I remember it like a painting, a snapshot in my mind. But really, all memories are like paintings: They can be incredibly vivid and lifelike. But in the end, they both just remind us that we only get to...
The painter does not conceive himself as existing in himself, he conceives himself as a reflection of the objects he has put into his pictures and he lives in the reflections of his pictures, a writer, a serious writer, conceives himself as existing ...
I know that you're selfish, selfish beyond words, and I know that you haven't the nerve of a rabbit, I know you're a liar and a humbug, I know that you're utterly contemptible. And the tragic part is'--her face was on a sudden distraught with pain--'...
Perhaps her faults and follies, the unhappiness she had suffered, were not entirely vain if she could follow the path that now she dimly discerned before her, not the path that kind funny old Waddington had spoken of that led nowhither, but the path ...
I felt his voice. Fingers rubbing moss. Smoke curling. Wood worn and smoothed over time. His voice had darkness in it that hovered close to the ground, like a mist hanging over a lake deep in a forest at dusk. A bolt of sea-green velvet. A sensation ...
When I write, I feel that I'm writing with my intellect. When I paint, I think it's some other force making me paint. I - as I wrote in my novel 'My Name is Red' - watch with amazement what my hand is doing on the paper, what kind of line, what kind ...
I am also the product of a place called Paint Creek. Doesn't have a zip code. It's too small to be called a town along the rolling plains of Texas. We grew dryland cotton and wheat, and when I wasn't farming or attending Paint Creek Rural School, I w...
Well, painting is the one thing I do, that is just me. It's me and easels, and the pencils. And as long as I don't drool too much over the canvas, the colors come out pretty good. And it's a chance to express all that I've got inside, that I sometime...
Often, I find it really hard to see what I'm doing when I'm in the thick of things. I can get too precious and have to force myself to put my paintings aside. There's a wall in my studio where I hang paintings that I think are done or nearly done. Ov...
Young Allie: Painting. Young Noah: What? Young Allie: You asked me, what I do for me... Young Noah: What now? Young Allie: I love to paint. Young Noah: Really? Young Allie: Mmm-hmm. Most of the time I have all these thoughts bouncin' around in my hea...
Kitty Fane: For God's sake, Walter, will you stop punishing me? Do you absolutely despise me? Walter Fane: No. I despise myself. Kitty Fane: Why? Walter Fane: For allowing myself to love you once. [Walter turns away and Kitty leaves the room and clos...
Walter Fane: Do you like flowers? Kitty Fane: Not particularly, no. Well, I mean yes, but we don't really have them around the house. Mother says, "Why purchase something you can grow for free?" Then, we don't really grow them either. It does silly r...
Kitty Fane: By the way, you might be happy to know that I am just as useless to the nuns as I am to you. Walter Fane: I shut off the town's only water supply today. Kitty Fane: What will you do? Walter Fane: I have no idea. Kitty Fane: Hmm. Then I su...
[Waddington walks in to the Fanes' new house] Waddington: You must be the doctor's wife. I've just met your husband and invited myself to dinner. I've kept the Watsons' cook for you - she's not bad. She'll have to do for your amah as well. We're a li...
I like the transience of Klimt paintings.
All my album artwork is body painting.
Time is a canvas, constantly re-painted.
As a teenager I started painting and playing guitar.
