One learns about painting by looking at and imitating other painters.
quote by Frank Stella
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Related quotes
But I was in awe of the painters; I mean I was new in New York, and I thought the painting that was going on here was just unbelievable.
quote by Robert Rauschenberg
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The craft of painting has virtually disappeared. There is hardly anyone left who really possesses it. For evidence one has only to look at the painters of this century.
It is this research into pure painting that is the problem at the present moment. I do not know any painters in Paris who are really searching for this ideal world.
quote by Robert Delaunay
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Drop of Water
Even split
Into two
It continues on
It lives forever
Imitating,
Copying
Its neighbor close by
And imitating,
Copying
Our dreams
To live on
Painters
In the cave with a long-ago flare
a woman stands, her arms up. Red twig, black twig, brown twig.
A wall of leaping darkness over her.
The men are out hunting in the early light
But here in this flicker, one or two men, painting
and a woman among them.
Great living animals grow on the stone walls,
their pelts, their eyes, their sex, their hearts,
and the cave-painters touch them with life, red, brown, black,
a woman among them, painting.
poem by Muriel Rukeyser
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Painters were also attorneys, happy storytellers of anecdote, psychologists, botanists, zoologists, archaeologists, engineers, but there were no creative painters.
quote by Kazimir Malevich
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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i understand Aldo
i understand Aldo
he is talking about a certain
cynthia buhain who thinks that he is a bogus poet
imitating others
art imitating life
aldo imitating other people's words
which, out of sheer fun, i also do,
but cynthia is new,
and Aldo must also try to understand
like God
Aldo must extend the hands of compassion
the witch may live in the Philippines
if Aldo believes it so...
meantime, Aldo my friend
outstanding poet at PH
let us keep PH 7
not 14 not 1
cool man, be neutral, be cool,
there is no storm, there is no malice
let us keep being first rated mockingbirds
on top of the roof
on top of our voices
let us keep mocking!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Canvas (Part 2)
We last left off with such the fright,
She paints—but gasp! —that's not quite right,
For every story has a twist,
And every painting is done on her wrist.
She paints with—sorry? —with little regard,
To what may bleed and what may scar,
But oh, she paints a lovely spar,
Despite the way that most things are.
Some find it funny and watch as she flees,
Others feel sick the moment they see,
Because a painter, she can't have much of a life,
If all of her painting is done with a knife.
This painter—in fact—she thinks she's alone,
Because of the burden of problems at home,
And then there's her mind, a nasty old place,
It's mostly the cause of the paintings she makes.
But one can be trapped, or one can be freed,
Though most painters like her find this hard to believe,
Yet this very painter broke free of her sadness,
And if she ever wonders 'why? ' she can look at her canvas.
poem by Dayna Mortimore
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A wise man learns by the experiences of others; an ordinary man learns by his own experience; a fool learns by nobody's experiences.
Today painters do not have to go to a subject matter outside of themselves. Most modern painters work from a different source. They work from within.
quote by Jackson Pollock
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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An Experiment Of Life....
life is an experiment
this poem is, was, and will always be
another experiment
imitating life, art imitating that serious life
that broken heart
mimicking pain
but can never be
the same
life is so beautiful, because of this experiment
shades of colors mixing in the atmosphere
life changing perfumes
hues,
changing shapes, birds, fish, islands
clouds,
never ending drama
conversations without end
whispers without edges
this one too, the one that you have never felt
even before
as you once closed the door
this is a cloud peeping for you
longing
drifting imitating you
changing
clothes, self, shedding off skin
snake, shark,
shoelace,
waters, sands, kiss, arms,
bodies....
just you and me
behind your nape my hush....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Painting The Walls
painting the walls,
rolling over handprints,
cobwebs, and smoke stains....
over splashes of color,
over peels of time.
painting over the sounds
of voices whispering, laughing....
painting over tears hidden
from the world, from each other.
painting over running, and working,
working all day and half the night.
painting over children, and dreams,
folded like old clothes, and put away.
painting over notes from God,
that were often barely noticed...
painting over the nail that held
up the clock, hands moving slowly,
turning the seasons of living....
painting over the final words,
the last breath held in the hands,
of lives written in the grain....
the testimony of each feeling....
painting the walls,
and brushing the corners,
as if we never lived!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The men resent a woman getting any honour in what they consider is essentially their field. Men painters mostly despise women painters. So I have decided to stop squirming, to throw any honour in with Canada and women.
quote by Emily Carr
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Modesty is high in view.
A painting free of cost;
A painting with a tag;
A painting not for sale;
The third soars high in view.
24.10.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Night workers..
Night is frozen and full of dust,
Nocturnal creatures are out on lust,
Trainee painters colored the earth,
Using the shades of grey at the brush,
A few take the paint in the bucket,
Splatter the darker grey on the forest,
They think to color the rivers of blue,
Adding the grey to the blue, make it dark,
How hard they paint the civilization black,
The lights of men make it bright,
Bored of painting on the roads,
back alleys are pained with what they have,
Forgotten the painting of the sea,
They throw their balance paint and brush into it,
Before they finish the job and get paid,
The cleaner of the earth arrives from the Vacuum,
Sucked in all the dust from the horizon,
The perfectly visible earth emerges,
After the thawing of its all nightly desires.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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I needed an outlet in high school and came across painting. I've actually been painting longer than I've been acting. A movie is a collaborative effort, and with painting you just have yourself.
quote by James Franco
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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But when I worked on a painting I would do it from a drawing but I would put certain things I was fairly sure I wanted in the painting, and then collage on the painting with printed dots or painted paper or something before I really committed it.
quote by Roy Lichtenstein
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Being a Jew, one learns to believe in the reality of cruelty and one learns to recognize indifference to human suffering as a fact.
quote by Andrea Dworkin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Payees’ world
A teacher learns while he teaches.
A physician learns while treating.
They benefit more than their clients.
The world is run by the losers.
22.08.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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When is a Painting Finished?
I paint.
On my easel
pictures in oil and acrylic grow
like stalagmites in limestone caves.
I think that painting is a magical act
that transforms invisible thoughts
and feelings into visible colors
and forms.
But I never can tell
when is the work finished.
After all it is always possible
to change a line, a hue, or a color
or even the whole composition.
Painters have different opinions
about this.
Some say that when the artist
successfully planted
all the details onto the canvas
the image expresses itself
as a severed autonomous entity,
which frees the painter from
the task of continuing to paint.
From then on the painting gains
an independent inner life of its own.
However, abandoning a work of art
involves a moral decision
ripened by the stiffening tension
between skill, creativity and integrity.
At what point does the polished image
meet the artist’s expectations?
And then, even if it does,
no single image can express
all that an artist wants to show,
and consequently his muses
compel him to carry on with his work
and create more paintings.
Hence the oeuvre of the artist
evolves as a set of different images
of the same single thrust and grind.
Many years ago I was wandering
through the countryside
of southern France in Provence.
Once I stopped to look at the road
where the village met the meadow.
A sturdy artist stood there
in front of his easel
painting the landscape
with skilful brushstrokes
on a well-stretched canvas.
I stared for a while
at the burgeoning picture
and then asked him:
“How do you know
when is the composition complete? ”
He gave me a piercing glance.
“Well”, he said,
“if you take a hammer
and hit me on the head
I know that the painting is finished.”
poem by Paul Hartal
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