Artwork Spirituality Quotes

Your life is your artwork and you are to paint life as a beautiful struggle. With your brush, paint the colors of joy in vibrant shades of red. Color the sky a baby blue, a color as free as your heart. With rich, earthy tones shade the valleys that run deep into the ground where heaven meets hell. Life is as chaotic as the color black, a blend of all colors, and this makes life a beautiful struggle. Be grateful for the green that makes up the beautiful canvas, for nature has given you everything that you need to be happy. Most of all, don’t ever feel the need to fill the entire canvas with paint, for the places left blank are the most honest expressions of who you are.

Without the spiritual component, the artist works with a crucial disadvantage. The spiritual world provides a sense of wonder and a degree of open-mindedness not always found within the confines of science. The world of reason can be narrow and filled with dead ends, while a spiritual viewpoint is limitless and invites fantastic possibilities. The unseen world is boundless.

We create our own reality. The blessing (or problem) with this is that when one creates one's own reality, one must live it! Are you living a blessing or is it a curse?

As any painter, writer, or composer knows, artworks arise from the tension between their physical materials and the thought or spirit that shapes them from within. Though they require some outward, physical element, they cease to function as art when they are reduced to their objectlike, artifactual element. This definitive tension underlies art’s varied social uses and explains how it came to be celebrated on the one hand as an expression of the highest spiritual achievements of humanity and, on the other, criticized as merely another precious object—a trapping of wealth, privilege, and social exclusion. Even in the heyday of classical music, there was always a gap between the philosophical claims for music and social practice

An artwork of renown only begins with the spiritualization of matter--a no doubt divinely inspired process; the spiritualization presumes an artistic talent in those who do it. This process signifies the creation's Song of Songs.

Christian formation is more than concepts and creeds. What is required is a lifelong transformation at the hands of the Master Artist through the use of specific tools of the Spirit. The phrase Benedict uses, instrumenta artis spiritalis, literally means 'instruments of spiritual arts.' He viewed the faith community as God's workshop or art studio--a place where God's artwork in our soul takes place.

The goal was to teach and spiritually transform its viewers. But in what way? We have already unveiled many of the artist’s secret messages hidden throughout the frescoes; but was there one overall statement he was trying to convey? Did he deliver it? In order to decide if Michelangelo succeeded, we will first need to probe into his innermost thoughts and find the key to his master plan, his “hidden brain” in the artwork. We have to do no less than answer the question, What was Michelangelo really trying to accomplish with his Sistine Chapel frescoes?

One of the soul's great tragedies is to execute a work and then realize, once it's finished, that it's not any good. The tragedy is especially great when one realizes that the work is the best he could have done. But to write a work, knowing beforehand that it's bound to be flawed and imperfect; to see while writing it that it's flawed and imperfect--this is the height of spiritual torture and humiliation.

All the ancient dissimilarities, conflicts and antagonisms were solely due to the fragmentary fashion in which people had been content, until then, to study the universe. When all these divergent rays of thought had found their common focal point in the four-dimensional synthesis, natural variations were no longer anything but harmonic manifestations of a single common thought. And from matter, formerly judged inert, to the noblest speculations of the human mind, the world was now no more than a single soul, living the same life, an emanation of a single diverse thought that was named, in memory of the naïve beliefs of old, the Golden Eagle. This union of minds, of the same time and all times, by the direct path of the fourth dimension—by the subconscious, as one would once have put it—had nothing blissful or passive about it, though, although no one had believed otherwise in the times when humankind still dreamed of naïve celestial sentimentality and eternal paradisal adoration. More than ever, contradiction engendered an intense intellectual life in which opposition alone, as in all the mind’s operations, was able to motivate thought. What ensured that all effort became useful and positive, however, was that each individual action of intelligence concurred with the same continuous whole—just as, in a statue, all the lines, because they are opposed, unite to perfect a single masterpiece—and that love had replaced hatred since the language of the four-dimensional soul had been substituted for the fragmentary hypocrisies of three-dimensional modes of expression: hypocrisies contained in the concrete words of language as in the relative formulas of science. After overturning all human traditions and mores, sincerity, imposed by the direct reading of thoughts, had engendered love and created, in the spiritual domain, a sort of state of nature, this time transcendental, that marked the definitive liberation of the human mind. Every man understood, in the Age of the Golden Eagle, that he was but one fragment of a single statue—whether an eye, nose or finger did not matter—that he was only one act of the same intelligence, and that he desired the beauty of the whole with all his heart, his duty was to devote all his strength to make the part that was confided to him as beautiful as possible. That detail of the whole, his personality, immortal as the whole outside time, was the art-work signed with his name for all eternity within the universal art-work; it was the “I” marking his place in the universal continuum. It was not important whether the act was one of intelligence, faith, revolt or kindness, provided it was worthy of the whole; on the contrary, woe betide the man if his “I” was nothing but a defect, a lack or a fault, forever.

Art is spiritual alchemy. It necessitates being completely open to new ideas, just as your playful inner child is inside of you. And it also requires that you are willing to look at what is working and what is not working so well in your life.

Why stock their minds with such images? The Christian inscriptions and artwork decorating these rooms explain the purpose. They are filled with words and images depicting the theme of the resurrection. The images include paintings like the one in the Catacombs of Praetextatus of a lush olive harvest (the crop Romans saw in their fields, like the crops of wheat Jesus saw in his area).5 Even as a modern, I experienced those resurrection images in an intensified spiritual light precisely because they were juxtaposed next to stark images of death.

Vittoria was watching him. “Do you believe in God, Mr. Langdon?” The question startled him. The earnestness in Vittoria’s voice was even more disarming than the inquiry. Do I believe in God? He had hoped for a lighter topic of conversation to pass the trip. A spiritual conundrum, Langdon thought. That’s what my friends call me. Although he studied religion for years, Langdon was not a religious man. He respected the power of faith, the benevolence of churches, the strength religion gave so many people . . . and yet, for him, the intellectual suspension of disbelief that was imperative if one were truly going to “believe” had always proved too big an obstacle for his academic mind. “I want to believe,” he heard himself say. Vittoria’s reply carried no judgment or challenge. “So why don’t you?” He chuckled. “Well, it’s not that easy. Having faith requires leaps of faith, cerebral acceptance of miracles—immaculate conceptions and divine interventions. And then there are the codes of conduct. The Bible, the Koran, Buddhist scripture . . . they all carry similar requirements—and similar penalties. They claim that if I don’t live by a specific code I will go to hell. I can’t imagine a God who would rule that way.” “I hope you don’t let your students dodge questions that shamelessly.” The comment caught him off guard. “What?” “Mr. Langdon, I did not ask if you believe what man says about God. I asked if you believed in God. There is a difference. Holy scripture is stories . . . legends and history of man’s quest to understand his own need for meaning. I am not asking you to pass judgment on literature. I am asking if you believe in God. When you lie out under the stars, do you sense the divine? Do you feel in your gut that you are staring up at the work of God’s hand?” Langdon took a long moment to consider it. “I’m prying,” Vittoria apologized. “No, I just . . .” “Certainly you must debate issues of faith with your classes.” “Endlessly.” “And you play devil’s advocate, I imagine. Always fueling the debate.” Langdon smiled. “You must be a teacher too.” “No, but I learned from a master. My father could argue two sides of a Möbius Strip.” Langdon laughed, picturing the artful crafting of a Möbius Strip—a twisted ring of paper, which technically possessed only one side. Langdon had first seen the single-sided shape in the artwork of M. C. Escher.

A most interesting example of the combination of this theology with aesthetic practice is found in the memoirs of the great twelfth-century abbot Suger, who made the church at St. Denis the first great work of the Gothic style in northern France. Suger has left us an unusual record of both the Platonic theology of art and his spiritual experience of finding God in the aesthetic. In the verses inscribed on the gilded cast bronze doors of the basilica, representing the passion and resurrection of Christ, he gives to the viewer this message concerning the purpose of the artwork: Whoever

Literature is the spirit of the Culture, the lifeblood. They’re one and the same. Words are everywhere. Storytelling is everywhere. Stories have been essential to human survival since prehistory: at their most base, they are how we communicate both threats and opportunities. They are how the subconscious sorts through problems as we rest; through the narratives that are dreams, we can go on and address life’s travails. Literature refines these functions, elevates them to the spiritual realm. That’s why words are so important, why literature is the highest art. Visual artworks, if not directly inspired by literature or telling their own stories, are still described in words. Dance is often performed as part of a story, and if not, is still described in words. The only thing that could conceivably rival it, as something unrelated, would be classical music, but even the masters in that field were often inspired by works in the Canon, and titled their compositions in words. Words give all things meaning. Stories are fundamental to the human experience.