Painters Keys Quotes

The canvas is the door to another dimension. The paintbrush is the key.

Changing the subject is one of the most difficult arts to master, the key to almost all the others.

The key to faking deaths is a fine appreciation of arterial spray patterns. I have found that blood bags work very well at simulating spray with a strategically poked hole; apply pressure to the bottom of the bag, practice a bit, and before long you will be able to write stories of carnage and odes to gore. A small fan brush-the sort that one dude used to paint happy little trees-can paint a picture of blunt force spatters if you flick the surface properly. You could even talk to yourself, as that painter did, while you flick blood around: "And maybe over here we have a nice stab wound. And, I don't know, maybe there's a few more back over here. Multiple stab wounds. It doesn't matter, whatever you feel like.

We are all sculptors and painters, and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones. —HENRY DAVID THOREAU

She had never seen me draw–because not drawing and forgetting everything I knew about art, I thought, was the magic key to my becoming a serious painter.

Even when I closed my eyes tight, I could still picture them kissing. “Screw this.” I opened my eyes, stood, and fished my key out of my pocket. It was time to go inside and gouge my eyes out.

The first intention of the painter,” Leonardo later wrote, “is to make a flat surface display a body as if modeled and separated from this plane, and he who surpasses others in this skill deserves most praise. This accomplishment, with which the science of painting is crowned, arises from light and shade, or we may say chiaroscuro.”30 That statement could stand as his artistic manifesto, or at least a key element of

STAINS With red clay between my toes, and the sun setting over my head, the ghost of my mother blows in, riding on a honeysuckle breeze, oh lord, riding on a honeysuckle breeze. Her teeth, the keys of a piano. I play her grinning ivory notes with cadenced fumbling fingers, splattered with paint, textured with scars. A song rises up from the belly of my past and rocks me in the bosom of buried memories. My mama’s dress bears the stains of her life: blueberries, blood, bleach, and breast milk; She cradles in her arms a lifetime of love and sorrow; Its brilliance nearly blinds me. My fingers tire, as though I've played this song for years. The tune swells red, dying around the edges of a setting sun. A magnolia breeze blows in strong, a heavenly taxi sent to carry my mother home. She will not say goodbye. For there is no truth in spoken farewells. I am pregnant with a poem, my life lost in its stanzas. My mama steps out of her dress and drops it, an inheritance falling to my feet. She stands alone: bathed, blooming, burdened with nothing of this world. Her body is naked and beautiful, her wings gray and scorched, her brown eyes piercing the brown of mine. I watch her departure, her flapping wings: She doesn’t look back, not even once, not even to whisper my name: Brenda. I lick the teeth of my piano mouth. With a painter’s hands, with a writer’s hands with rusty wrinkled hands, with hands soaked in the joys, the sorrows, the spills of my mother’s life, I pick up eighty-one years of stains And pull her dress over my head. Her stains look good on me.

Sometimes my soul feels very peaceful, happy to be contained. Other times it has the urge to send envoys into the world, and I find myself sending unguarded passionate messages, voice notes and even recordings of me singing to my friends. It makes me think of the bit in the song where Joni breaks into the Canadian national anthem. I find the whole song moving, but this particular part, her 'o Canada', sounds like a moment where she forgets the audience and performs in the way you might in a private scene with a lover, family member or friend. No one wants to be a lonely soul, only filled up with yourself and the abstractions of the soul in art. Like a squid stuffed with its own tentacles. A lonely painter, living in a box of paints. But, it occurs to me, needing to identify what or who the 'you' is when I sing Joni's song is another example of my ego troubling with a convention I don't really believe in. My 'you' could be liquid, flowing from one thing to another. It could contain many people and things, be so vast as to be God-sized, an oceanic you. Or it could be small and exact like a square of pure pigment, with a startling itselfness, which once it goes beyond me can transform all it touches.

All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul, All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth, All through music and me! For think, had I painted the whole, Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth: Had I written the same, made verse—still, effect proceeds from cause, Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told; It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled:— But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can, Existent behind all laws, that made them and, lo, they are! And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man, That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star. Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is nought; It is everywhere in the world—loud, soft, and all is said: Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought: And, there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head! Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared; Gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow; For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared, That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. Never to be again! But many more of the kind As good, nay, better, perchance: is this your comfort to me? To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind To the same, same self, same love, same God: ay, what was, shall be.

I was standing lost, sunk, my hands in my pockets, gazing toward Tinker Mountain and feeling the earth reel down. All at once, I saw what looked like a Martian spaceship whirling towards me in the air. It flashed borrowed light like a propeller. Its forward motion greatly outran its fall. As I watched, transfixed, it rose, just before it would have touched a thistle, and hovered pirouetting in one spot, then twirled on and finally came to rest. I found it in the grass; it was a maple key…Hullo. I threw it into the wind and it flew off again, bristling with animate purpose, not like a thing dropped or windblown, pushed by the witless winds of convection currents hauling round the world’s rondure where they must, but like a creature muscled and vigorous, or a creature spread thin to that other wind, the wind of the spirit that bloweth where it listeth, lighting, and raising up, and easing down. O maple key, I thought, I must confess I thought, o welcome, cheers. And the bell under my ribs rang a true note, a flourish of blended horns, clarion, sweet, and making a long dim sense I will try at length to explain. Flung is too harsh a word for the rush of the world. Blown is more like it, but blown by a generous, unending breath. That breath never ceases to kindle, exuberant, abandoned; frayed splinters spatter in every direction and burgeon into flame. And now when I sway to a fitful wind, alone and listing, I will think, maple key. When I see a photograph of earth from outer space, the planet so startlingly painterly and hung, I will think, maple key. When I shake your hand or meet your eyes, I will think two maple keys. If I am maple key falling, at least I can twirl. Thomas Merton wrote, “There is always a temptation to diddle around in the contemplative life, making itsy-bitsy statues.” There is always an enormous temptation in all of life to diddle around making itsy-bitsy friends and meals and journeys for itsy-bitsy years on end. It’s no self-conscious, so apparently moral, simple to step aside from the gaps where the creeks and winds pour down, saying, I never merited this grace, quite rightly, and then to sulk along the rest of your days on the edge of rage. I won’t have it. The world is wilder than that in all directions, more dangerous and bitter, more extravagant and bright. We are making hay when we should be making whoopee; we are raising tomatoes when we should be raising Cain, or Lazarus. Ezekiel excoriates false prophets who have “not gone up into the gaps.” The gaps are the thing. The gaps are the spirit’s one home, the altitudes and latitudes so dazzlingly spare and clean that the spirit can discover itself for the first time like a once blind man unbound. The gaps are the cliffs in the rock where you cower to see the back parts of God; they are the fissures between mountains and cells the wind lances through, the icy narrowing fjords splitting the cliffs of mystery. Go up into the gaps. If you can find them; they shift and vanish too. Stalk the gaps. Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn, and unlock- more than a maple- a universe. This is how you spend the afternoon, and tomorrow morning, and tomorrow afternoon. Spend the afternoon. You can’t take it with you.

And now when I sway to a fitful wind, alone and listing, I will think, maple key. When I see a photograph of earth from space, the planet so startlingly painterly and hung, I will think, maple key. When I shake your hand or meet your eyes I will think, two maple keys. If I am a maple key falling, at least I can twirl.

The painter, Edouard Manet, once observed: “There are no lines in nature, only areas of color, one against another.

A lock and key,

When Lydia woke up next, she had a message from Fleet. He wanted her to meet Lydia at the park nearest to the Camberwell police station.

You’ve been busy, I know. There’s been… A lot. Family stuff. Fleet. I know.

That Holbein and enigma go hand in hand is in fact quite appropriate. Mystery is a key part of Holbein’s appeal.

Colour and light
 playing seriously on the canvas,
 making stunning pictures.
 Breathtaking,
 wondrous, silent,
 wordless signs, leading to your inner self.
 Feel.
 The painter has given you a key to your own universe.  It brings you silence  in the midst of your tumultuous world.  The world is full of signposts,
 find them,  take them in.  Cherish them,  breathe in the moment.  Naked,  vulnerable,  fearless, silent.
 You are here to meet the I.

Tere is signification when we submit the data of the world to a "coherent deformation." That convergence of all the visible and intellectual vectors of the painting towards the same signification, X, is already sketched out in the painter's perception. It begins as soon as he perceives—that is, as soon as he arranges certain gaps or fissures, figures and grounds, a top and a bottom, a norm and a deviation in the inaccessible plenum of things. In other words, as soon as certain elements of the world take on the value of dimensions to which from then on we relate all the others and in whose language we express them. For each painter, style is the system of equivalences that he makes for himself for the work which manifests the world he sees. It is the universal index of the "coherent deformation" by which he concentrates the still scattered meaning of perception and makes it exist expressly. The work is not brought to fulfilment far from things and in some intimate laboratory to which the painter and the painter alone has the key. Whether he is looking at real flowers or paper flowers, he always goes back to his world, as if the principle of the equivalences by means of which he is going to manifest it had been buried there since the beginning of time.

It may seem unlikely in principle that one individual could really generate so much more wealth than another. The key to this mystery is to revisit that question, are they really worth 100 of us? Would a basketball team trade one of their players for 100 random people? What would Apple’s next product look like if you replaced Steve Jobs with a committee of 100 random people?6 These things don’t scale linearly. Perhaps the CEO or the professional athlete has only ten times (whatever that means) the skill and determination of an ordinary person. But it makes all the difference that it’s concentrated in one individual.

Barbara Hyman was born in Philadelphia, and is now a New York, and Key West based painter. After receiving her B.A. in Art History, Barbara continued her studies in fine art. Barbara studied privately at the Atelier of Daniel Bennet Schwartz, NYC, The National Academy of Design, NYC, the Art Students League of New York, and the Saci School, Florence, Italy. She is also Certified in Appraising Fine Art. Barbara Hyman's paintings and drawings hang in collections in Pennsylvania and New York.

The luncheon ended with a warning. “Mankind can no longer wait to respond to this crisis,” Ivar Karlsen said, standing at a podium at the far end of the dining hall. “A global collapse faces this generation or the next.” Painter shared the table

As the triumphant French crusaders began to march from victory to victory, in France, echoing the march of the columns in Algeria, the ‘greatness’ of the Crusades was revived in arts, expressing past French glories. Highly popular amongst artists were Louis IX’s two crusades (1248-50; 1270), which symbolised successes of French history. Exhibitions of sculptures and paintings and tapestries of scenes from his life abounded. Thus was organised in the Salles des Croisades at Versailles a festival as part of King Louis Phillipe's (King 1830-1848) programme to turn the palace into a museum ‘dedicated to the glories of France.’ The five crusade rooms displayed each a key crusade events and individuals and the coats of arms of their participants. In total, there were 120 paintings of individual crusaders and scenes of battles and sieges in which French crusaders played a leading role.761 Louis Philippe employed no less than fifty painters for such an enterprise.762 Correspondingly, in the Musée, three rooms were dedicated to the war in the colony, which were called the Salles d’Afrique. The Salles d’Afrique were built exactly above the Salles des Croisades, which symbolically linked the conquest of Algeria to the Crusades.763