art - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
True art is channelled through the loving heart, guided by emotions that stir the soul to loving bonds and the sort of imagination that is free and child-like in its sense of wonder and joy. Art is not a technical skill, not one that can be aped by those cold within, yet it can be a path they can take to resuscitate the love they were born with and learn to be brave enough to reconnect with their soul.
This art it pours out of me, as if my heart wishes to sing all day and all night. It is such a chatterbox, this heart of mine. It dances in the words as if it were performing a ballet, loving each tiny movement. It comes as a river, often gentle, yet with a flow that appears to have a sense of where it is going. It comes to be born rather than moulded, to show itself for what it is. It is a lot of me and a lot of divine inspiration, or that is how I see it when the artist truly loves, when the art is the proof of the loving heart.
Our art is our joy, our god-given pathway for natural healing. It is not a thing to judge or measure by imaginary yard-sticks. It is the seeds of our minds that grow and help us navigate our way toward happiness and health. It is our right to be as free as the wind and the bird who plays on the wing. Pain may come out in a painting, or the toll on our being be told in a story, dancing and weaving in the metaphors of dreams. Or it may come as fluid movements that are a song of emotions. Yet this is how the mind unites and creativity becomes a bonfire to illuminate our way.
Art is part of our human soul. It is dreams emerging from a part of ourselves, a way to communicate with the deeper self of both the artist and others. The same piece invokes different emotions depending on the person, their mood, their time of life. Art is pictures; art is sculpture; art is the creative word; art is music. We are all artists in our various ways, all born to be creative.
The art on my wall is beautiful in its corporate way. The flowers are white and the yellow nectar looks sweet. The petals fan widely over the canvas and sometimes when I pass it I think I can almost detect a fragrance. On the top is a layer of dust, I guess I should get to that. I've moved around al lot, from coast to coast, but wherever I go the picture goes too. It has adorned bedsits, condos and now my home. It reminds me of the store I bought it in, not much more than a warehouse with music pumped in; but that isn't why I love it. There's part of me that needs nature in my home, even it is only a poor imitation of the real thing. If I could afford real blooms I'd have them every day, then the scent would be real instead of wishful thinking.
I can't abide the art that's printed by the thousands. I'm not an carbon copy person and I don't want carbon copy art. I want something beautiful on the wall, but I want to know the artist that made it. I want to know what moved them to make something so beautiful – and to me it always is. Even pain and sorrow is beautiful in art, it shows us who we are, who we have been, and helps us to see where we're heading. So when I see those reproductions I see a corporation hijacking something that should be personal and making it ugly – no matter what scene it represents. Art takes time, art takes love, I'll take an original over a copy any day.
Heidi sits on the edge of her plastic chair, this is science class, her chance to shine. The other kids seem to come alive in art class, amongst the pastels and fine charcoal pencils, but for her the sight of the laboratory was the heaven she craved. Art was amazing, art was beautiful, but not when drawn by her hand. By her hand it was like a three year old with a broken arm was given a crayon and told to have fun. Mr Tobias was beaming at the front of the class, and she fought not to reflect it back, grinning at teachers wasn't cool. But as he announced the new assignment her face fell into a natural look of disbelief, her mouth as straight as the pencil on her desk. Twenty percent of the grade was based on the artwork that went with it. Nine out of ten kids in the class voted to approve the new rubric and Heidi felt like something had just died in her mouth. Twenty percent. She could kiss her A's goodbye.
Gina paused, reaching with bangled arm toward a piece of art. It was a leaf skeleton, its green flesh eaten away to leave only a lacy cellulose network - fragile, natural, beautiful in its own way. Her eyes travelled over it's ovoid shape, thrown into sharp relief by the deep plum background. She had already activated her pocket alarm and her security team would be there in a few more seconds to implement her extraction. An overeager shop assistant approached her, "it's cherry - from the first tree planted in Vancouver in the 1930's." Gina sighed.
"It's a common leaf soaked in washing soda and stuck on a cheap off-cut of a fabric chosen the appeal to the masses." The assistant stayed for a few moments, her brain digesting the reply, then she turned on her heels and left, her all-day-smile sagging somewhat.
The art on the wall is too incomprehensible. Perhaps I'm a simpleton but all I see is the obvious, no deep hidden meanings and it isn't my idea of beauty. I need a picture that is fields and a cow, something that has meaning. I can't get excited about cubes and geometry. If the picture takes brain power to figure out I can't be bothered. Art should be pretty, end of story.
The art on the wall fills me with a big "so what." So they slapped some paint on canvas, big wow. My dog could have done better with his tail dipped in the can. I don't know what all these other people see, they look at it like there's genius there but there isn't. It's just paint and sacking. If I was any more underwhelmed I'd yawn right now, but I was raised better. So I'll smile politely until I get out of here, then I'm off for a beer. That's art isn't it? It is to me. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, why not art?
Our creativity brings our dreams to life; inspiring, enchanting, bringing us closer to God. In art our spirits rise, in stories we are enthralled and elevated. With creativity we make connections between disparate people, we learn that through our many lenses we are seeing the same whole, only the path before our feet is still blurred. Life should never be art vs science, but a beautiful marriage of the two.
The art is coloured glass sculpted by high power water jet, then formed into a mosaic that invites the curiosity of the mind. The flowing blues and greens could be so many things, perhaps like a fading dream it is what you want it to be. For me it is fish in cool waters, swimming freely in their own salty utopia. Maybe that's because I'd love to dive right in with them and feel the soft currents moving past my skin, my hair moving like deep brown kelp. I get lost every time my eyes fall on this piece, it's a place to escape into without leaving these walls, a brief retreat without the massage and pedicures.
Hanging on chipped white paint a painting waited for someone to stop and look and admire her. She watched other paintings get admired, praising extravagant brush strokes and bright bold colors, as she just hung there, unnoticed, unloved. She knew that she was as just as good as them, maybe even better. Her day would come, and they would all regret not stopping to see her beauty. She later became one of the most famous paintings in the world. Her name was Mona, Mona Lisa.
How can one describe art? A work of art can be a painting, a drawing, a piece of music, a piece of theatre. A piece of art is anything that is a source of inspiration to others, something that can be heard in the depths of their bodies, right in the core of their person, where it resonates its deepest meaning. What that meaning is, is up to you. Art has the ability to express a thousand words in a second, and a hundred different stories can be heard in each note of a song. The arts are the result of us using the gift of imagination and rewarding it to the world for others to enjoy, as well as ourselves. Art is wholly and completely selfless, and because of this, it is utterly and shamelessly beautiful.
The wind blows, dear one. It moves the trees and the grasses with its passion. It makes the flowers dance and the birds float. Someday I long for you to see that you are like the wind. Your passion moves me; it stirs my soul in ways I’ve never felt before. It makes me feel with you. It makes me want to get up and dance or curl up and cry. It has me completely entranced. Your hands have captured my heart and your art my emotions. I will never understand how your simple strokes move me so, but I love it. So don’t ever stop.