Quotes About Expression

But his service was to art, not to church or country. His beads, dungarees, and sheepskin vest represented not the costume but an expression of freedom.

Then there are the scores of notebooks, their contents calling — confession, revelation, endless variations of the same paragraph — and piles of napkins scrawled with incomprehensible rants. Dried-out ink bottles, encrusted nibs, cartridges for pens long gone, mechanical pencils emptied of lead. Writer's debris.

In my low periods, I wondered what was the point of creating art. For whom? Are we animating God? Are we talking to ourselves?

El muchacho que yo había conocido era tímido y tenía dificultad para expresarse. Le gustaba dejarse llevar, que lo cogieran de la mano para entrar sin reservas en un mundo distinto. Era masculino y protector, pese a ser femenino y sumiso. Meticuloso en su vestuario y modales, también era capaz de un desorden atemorizante en su obra. Sus mundos eran solitarios y peligrosos, y vaticinaban libertad, éxtasis y liberación.

Nothing really matches the atmosphere of the old Polaroid film. Except perhaps a poem, a musical phrase, or a forest hung with mist.

A language without words, where the mind must bow to instinct

Jimi Hendrix] dreamed of amassing musicians from all over the world in Woodstock and they would sit in a field in a circle and play and play. It didn't matter what key or tempo or what melody, they would keep on playing through their discordance until they found a common language. Eventually they would record this abstract universal language of music in his new studio. "The language of peace. You dig?" I did.

Suddenly he looked up and said, "Patti, did art get us?" I looked away, not really wanting to think about it. "I don't know, Robert. I don't know." Perhaps it did, but no one could regret that. Only a fool would regret being had by art; or a saint.

I'm sure I could write endlessly about nothing. If only I had nothing to say.

I'm certain, as we filed down the great staircase, that I appeared the same as ever, a moping twelve-year-old, all arms and legs. But secretly I knew I had been transformed, moved by the revelation that human beings create art, that to be an artist was to see what others could not.

Most often the alchemy that produces a poem or a work of fiction is hidden within the work itself, if not embedded in the coiling ridges of the mind.

It ain't so easy writing about nothin

Robert morente, creava il silenzio. Io, destinata alla vita, prestai ascolto a un silenzio che avrebbe richiesto un'esistenza intera per trovare le parole.

I was no actress; I drew no line between life and art.

I preferred an artist who transformed his time, not mirrored it.

As we headed back to Tangier we saw a shepherd guiding a camel with her calf. Rolling down the window, I called out: —What is the little one's name? —His name is Jimi Hendrix. —Hooray, I wake from yesterday! —Inshallah! he called out.

In times of strife, we have our imagination, we have our creative impulse, which are things that are more important than material things. They are the things that we should magnify.

I can only hope, as I offer my world on a platter filled with allusions.

Coloring excited him, not the act of filling in space, but choosing colors that no one else would select. In the green of the hills he saw red. Purple snow, green skin, silver sun. He liked the effect it had on others, that it disturbed his siblings.

But the urge to express myself was my strongest desire, and my siblings were my first eager coconspirators in the harvesting of my imagination

We all have a song. A song comes spontaneously, expressing joy, loneliness, to dispel fear or exhibit a small triumph. We hardly notice we are forming them, as we sing them, often alone, half to ourselves. It is finding the words within that leads us to sing. It might be a hymn, a shard of rebellion, or a teenage prayer.

Remember we are mortal but poetry is not.

Nothing is more dangerous than science without poetry or technical progress without emotional content," wrote Houston Stewart Chamberlain, a German philosopher.

I was born to know youTo give you your nameFreedom.