Paintings Quotes

“The paintings of Francis Bacon to my eye are very beautiful. The paintings of Bosch or Goya are to my eye very beautiful. I've also stood in front of those same paintings with people who've said, 'let's get on to the Botticellis as soon as possible.' I have lingered, of course.”
― Clive Barker

“Not everybody trusts paintings but people believe photographs.”
― Ansel Adams

“Colour is a power which directly influences the soul.”
― Wassily Kandinsky , Concerning the Spiritual in Art

“Ah, merciless Love, is there any length to which you cannot force the human heart to go?”
― Virgil, The Aeneid

“The reason some portraits don't look true to life is that some people make no effort to resemble their pictures.”
― Salvador Dalí

“I try to apply colors like words that shape poems, like notes that shape music. ”
― Joan Miro

“A work of art which did not begin in emotion is not art.”
― Paul Cezanne

“I was reading about animals a while back and there was this motherfucking scientist in France back in the thirties or forties or whenever the motherfuck it was and he was trying to get apes to draw these pictures, to make art pictures like the kinds of pictures in serious motherfucking paintings that you see in museums and shit. So the scientist keeps showing the apes these paintings and giving them charcoal pencils to draw with and then one day one of the apes finally draws something but it’s not the art pictures that it draws. What it draws is the bars of its own motherfucking cage. Its own motherfucking cage! Man, that's the truth, ain't it?”
― Cheryl Strayed, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail

“When it comes to forming opinions on works of art, people look to others. Most people end up liking paintings, songs and movies just because the majority have a favourable opinion about them. Ultimately it’s all about the brand value of the artist.”
― Abhaidev, The Influencer: Speed Must Have a Limit

“Art is a harmony parallel with nature”
― Paul Cezanne, Cezanne: Mont Sainte-Victoire

“Since the world is ending,” Peter quoted from behind us, “why not let the children touch the paintings?”
― Ben Lerner, 10:04

“I swing my arms to loosen myself up. Place my fists on my hips. then drop them to my sides. Saliva's filling my mouth at a ridiculous rate and i feel vomit at the back of my throat. I swallow hard and open my lips so I can get the stupid line out and go hide in the woods and-that's when i start crying.”
― Suzanne Collins, Mockingjay

“There is only one road to follow, that of analysis of the basic elements in order to arrive ultimately at an adequate graphic expression.”
― Wassily Kandinsky, Concerning the Spiritual in Art

“This is a perfectly good picture. And if I didn't know you, I would be impressed and charmed. But I do know you."
He thought some more, wondering whether he dared say precisely what he felt, for he knew he could never explain exactly why the idea came to him. "It's the painting of a dutiful daughter," he said eventually, looking at her cautiously to see her reaction. "You want to please. You are always aware of what the person looking at this picture will think of it. Because of that you've missed something important. Does that make sense?"
She thought, then nodded. "All right," she said grudgingly and with just a touch of despair in her voice. "You win."
Julien grunted. "Have another go, then. I shall come back and come back until you figure it out."
"And you'll know?"
"You'll know. I will merely get the benefit of it.”
― Iain Pears, The Dream of Scipio

“He would always be around you, not in these words or paintings, but in your heart. He will always be in happy memories. You can't cage his worth in few pages and colors.”
― Vidushi Gupta, The Unending Maze: Because Finding Your Way Out Has Never Been More Difficult

“Aryami Bose's home had been closed up for years, inhabited only by books and paintings, but the spectre of thousands of memories imprisoned between its walls still permeated the house.”
― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Midnight Palace

“I love salmon. Of all my fishy friends, I love salmon the best. Or trout. Or tuna. Or smelts. Oh heck. I love them ALL! But I have such fond memories of salmon. See, my dad was a fisherman. I mean a fanatic fisherman. Fishing was probably what he liked to do most (along with gardening and riding horses and camping in the Sierra and bowling and… ) But honestly, folks, fishing was probably the winner for leisure-time activities.”
― Mallory M. O'Connor, The Kitchen and the Studio: A Memoir of Food and Art

“On the opposite wall was a Damien Hirst spot painting, bought by Arabella after a decent bonus season. Roger's considered view of the painting, looking at it from aesthetic, art-historical, interior-design, and psychological points of view, was that it had cost forty-seven thousand pounds, plus VAT.”
― John Lanchester, Capital

“Although we couldn’t entertain on the same level we had previously enjoyed, we did have several friends over for dinner and managed to cook some delectable meals. For Mama’s birthday, we made a delicious chilled artichoke soup to accompany a French Provencal chicken dish served with leeks, rice, and John’s special green salad. We poured a classic white Burgundy and topped it off with a frozen lemon souffle. Not too bad for an out-of-work couple with a new baby.”
― Mallory M. O'Connor, The Kitchen and the Studio: A Memoir of Food and Art

“In 1969, both John and I began job hunting. I had finished my second master’s degree and started sending out resumes. I got several offers from various schools—Metropolitan State University in Denver, Keene State College in New Hampshire—and John also had some offers. But neither of us wanted to be a “trailing spouse.” What to do?Then we went to the College Art Association conference in Washington, D.C., and met Gene Grissom, chair of the art department at the University of Florida. They were looking for a young faculty member with some administrative experience, and John fit the bill perfectly. There was also a possibility for me to teach either art history or humanities. After several weeks of negotiations, we decided to make the move to Florida where BOTH of us had jobs!”
― Mallory M. O'Connor, The Kitchen and the Studio: A Memoir of Food and Art

“The image titled “The Homeless, Psalm 85:10,” featured on the cover of ELEMENTAL, can evoke multiple levels of response. They may include the spiritual in the form of a studied meditation upon the multidimensional qualities of the painting itself; or an extended contemplation of the scripture in the title, which in the King James Bible reads as follows: “Mercy and truth are met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other.” The painting can also inspire a physical response in the form of tears as it calls to mind its more earth-bound aspects; namely, the very serious plight of those who truly are homeless in this world, whether born into such a condition, or forced into it by poverty or war.”
― Aberjhani, Elemental: The Power of Illuminated Love

“I don't want these. They're mud and they've got no color. Or at least the color is different from what I'm used to. Take any American city, in autumn, or in winter, when the light makes the colors dance and flow, and look at it from a distant hill or from a boat in the bay or on the river, and you will see in any section of the view far better paintings than in this lentil soup that you people have to pedigree in order to love. I may be a thief, but I know color when I see it in the flash of heaven or in the Devil's opposing tricks, and I know mud. Mr. Knoedler, you needn't worry about your paintings anymore. I'm not going to steal them. I don't like them.

Sincerely yours,
P. Soames”
― Mark Helprin, Winter's Tale

“I had learned that most people preferred meaningless paintings to meaningful conversations, and as a result, I struggled to connect with others.”
― Santosh Kalwar, The Society In Opposition To Everything

“Everybody must like something and I like seeing painted pictures.”
― Gertrude Stein, Lectures in America

“She looked at the painting - so pastel, so peaceful. Somehow Ma's mind had pulled beauty from lunacy. Anyone looking at these portraits would think they portrayed the happiest of families, living on a seashore, playing in sunshine.”
― Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing

“When he paused before a set of wooden doors, the slight smile he gave me was enough to make me blurt, 'Why do anything- anything this kind?'

The smile faltered. 'It's been a long time since there was anyone here who appreciated these things. I like seeing them used again.' Especially when there was such blood and death in every other part of his life.

He opened the gallery doors, and the breath was knocked from me.

The pale wooden floors gleamed in the clean, bright light pouring in from the windows. The room was empty save for a few large chairs and benches for viewing the... the...

I barely registered moving into the long gallery, one hand absent-mindedly wrapping around my throat as I looked up at the paintings.

So many, so different, yet all arranged to flow together seamlessly. Such different views and snippets and angles of the world. Pastorals, portraits, still lifes... each a story and an experience, each a voice showing or whispering or singing about what that moment, that feeling had been like, each a cry into the void of time that they had been here, had existed. Some had been painted through eyes like mine, artists who saw in colours and shapes I understood. Some showcased colours I had not considered, these had a bend to the world that told me a different set of eyes had painted them. A portal into the mind of a creature so unlike me, and yet... and yet I looked at its work and understood, and felt, and cared.

'I never knew,' Tamlin said from behind me, 'that humans were capable of...' He trailed off as I turned, the hand I'd put on my throat sliding down to my chest, where my heart roared with a fierce sort of joy and grief and overwhelming humility- humility before that magnificent art.

He stood by the doors, head cocked in that animalistic way, the words still lost on his tongue.

I wiped at my damp cheeks. 'It's...' Perfect, wonderful, beyond my wildest imaginings didn't cover it. I kept my hand over my heart. 'Thank you,' I said. It was all I could find to show him what these paintings- to be allowed into this room- meant.

'Come here whenever you want.'

I smiled at him, hardly able to contain the brightness in my heart. His returning smile was tentative but shining, and then he left me to admire the gallery at my own leisure.

I stayed for hours- stayed until I was drunk on the art, until I was dizzy with hunger and wandered out to find food.”
― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Thorns and Roses

“I walked to the painting on the easel. It was an impression, not a lifelike rendering. 'I wanted you to see this one,' I said, pointing to the smear of green and gold and silver and blue. 'It's for you. A gift. For everything you've done.'

Heat flared in my cheeks, my neck, my ears, as he silently approached the painting.

'It's the glen- with the pool of starlight,' I said quickly.

'I know what it is,' he murmured, studying the painting. I backed away a step, unable to bear watching him look at it, wishing I hadn't brought him in here, blaming it on the wine I'd had at dinner, on the stupid dress. He examined the painting for a miserable eternity, then looked away- to the nearest painting leaning against the wall.

My gut tightened. A hazy landscape of snow and skeletal trees and nothing else. It looked like.... like nothing, I supposed, to anyone but me. I opened my mouth to explain, wishing I'd turned the others away from view, but he spoke.

'That was your forest. Where you hunted.' He came close to the painting, gazing at the bleak, empty cold, the white and grey and brown and black. 'This was your life,' he clarified.

I was too mortified, too stunned, to reply. He walked to the next painting I'd left against the wall. Darkness and dense brown, flickers of ruby red and orange squeezing between them. 'Your cottage at night.'

I tried to move, to tell him to stop looking at those ones and look at the others I'd laid out, but I couldn't- couldn't even breathe properly as he moved to the next painting. A tanned, sturdy male hand fisted in the hay, the pale pieces of it entwined among strands of brown coated with gold- my hair. My gut twisted. 'The man you used to see- in your village.' He cocked his head again as he studied the picture, and a low growl slipped out. 'While you made love.' He stepped back, looking at the row of pictures. 'This is the only one with brightness.'

Was that... jealousy? 'It was the only escape I had.' Truth. I wouldn't apologise for Issac. Not when Tamlin had just been in the Great Rite. I didn't hold that against him- but if he was going to be jealous of Issac-

Tamlin must have realised it, too, for he loosed a long, controlled breath before moving to the next painting. Tall shadows of men, bright red dripping off their fists, off their wooden clubs, hovering and filling the edges of the painting as they towered over the curled figure on the floor, the blood leaking from him, the leg at a wrong angle.

Tamlin swore. 'You were there when they wrecked your father's leg.'

'Someone had to beg them to stop.'

Tamlin threw a too-knowing glance in my direction and turned to look at the rest of the paintings. There they were, all the wounds I'd slowly been leeching these few months. I blinked. A few months. Did my family believe that I would be forever away with this so-called dying aunt?

At last, Tamlin looked at the painting of the glen and the starlight. He nodded in appreciation. But he pointed to the painting of the snow-veiled woods. 'That one. I want that one.'

'It's cold and melancholy,' I said, hiding my wince. 'It doesn't suit this place at all.'

He went up to it, and the smile he gave me was more beautiful than any enchanted meadow or pool of stars. 'I want it nonetheless,' he said softly.”
― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Thorns and Roses

“Continuo a vender alguns quadros através da galeria de Nice, é certo, mas tenho sempre dificuldade em desfazer-me das telas e sobretudo àquele preço exploratório… mas enfim, um quadro tem de seguir a sua viagem! Talvez os volte a encontrar. Quanto ao meu futuro? A verdade é que não sei o que quero fazer a partir de agora…”
― Rui Carruço

“The offending canvas stood in the middle of the room under another stained tarp — like an apparition.”
― Marcel M. du Plessis, The Curse of Balar

“What interested these painters was evidently the fact that my clothes were torn off, which allowed them to paint a naked woman in distress, always of interest to a certain kind of man.”
― Margaret Atwood, Old Babes in the Wood: Stories