What a beautiful art, but what a wretched profession.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
Art is a kind of illness.
Art is beauty, the perpetual invention of detail, the choice of words, the exquisite care of execution.
Art is born of humiliation.
The work of art is a scream of freedom.
If a work of art is rich and vital and complete, those who have artistic instincts will see its beauty, and those to whom ethics appeal more strongly than aesthetics will see its moral lesson. It will fill the cowardly with terror, and the unclean will see in it their own shame.
Real artists take the misery and sadness of life and translate it into art.
I have a horror of people who speak about the beautiful. What is the beautiful? One must speak of problems in painting!
The whole thrust of modern art, as far as I understand it, is expanding the role of the artist as a kind of esthetician, someone who actually spends his time, is trained in a way to deal with qualities.
A beautiful body perishes, but a work of art dies not.
Art is the job of the privileged.