artist - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
You can write into the air; you can speak upon a page. A painting can be a novel and a story can paint the perfect picture. Dance can express such emotion and emotions can stir deep movements within even a chance observer. We dream in deep metaphors and visual puns, then weave them into stories that speak to every level of our consciousness. We artists speak with words and without; we artists are nature's soul-restoration crew.
Our artists are the kites of thinking, as are philosophers, dreamers... yet in truth they are our natural anchors to all the things that make living so wonderful. They are the bright gold in the grey, the red of the robin's breast. What is the technological dream without the beauty of a horse? Without the time to feel music soaked joy on a sun-shiny day?
"I don't think I ever saw Alice without paint on her hands and a dash in her auburn locks. It was as much a part of her as the smile she wore whenever I arrived at her doorstep. In moments we'd be in her kitchen, her putting a coffee pot on and me producing something from the bakers as if it were all a big unplanned surprise."
Anna moved like an artist, her eyes taking in more details than the average person, her limbs almost dancing even when she walked. In her long brown hair was a streak of baby blue, almost the same shade as her ripped jeans.
He saw the world as it was, a beautiful array of colors and shapes, ideas and formulas, voids and space, love and fear. It was all a canvas that left just enough space for everyone to paint their own story, their own lives in the whites of the world. Some painted out and off the canvas onto the walls if they dared and other painted in a smaller area than provided. And then there were those who ran their strokes over and into the lives of many others either ruining their work or creating something simultaneously beautiful. He was a true artist, one who saw the world for how it was supposed to be seen; with an open heart, mind, body, soul. He judged none and nothing. It was all the same to him; parts of life that were each equal and necessary, the art of the world.
There was an excitement about Brian when he saw the view - already seeing it as a watercolour instead of the moving sea and beached fishing boats that it was. his hands came up as he chose the best angle and then without a word he jogged down to the car for supplies.
Everyone is an Artist...
you create A Masterpiece of Art..
Something you only can do...
When my hand moves over the canvass it's almost like my mind is directing it without me, odd perhaps, but that's the way it is. My hand moves instinctively to the right spot, building a new picture, often one I have never seen before. In these fantastical worlds I see reflections of my own mind, the way I think, but there is something else there too. I don't know what, perhaps I just imagine it, but when I paint I feel closest to our creator and it gives me a peace and mental calmness I cannot find another way.
The cat was a ginger, but not harsh like a red tabby, it was more like the kind of orange you'd see on a beloved old-shirt mixed with heavy cream. He had a soft look about him and he felt like a kitten to touch, but going by his size he was a young adult. I took out my camera for a few shots - in the gentle spring light he was enchanting, his eyes a soft teal blue. With the photos I will paint his portrait, handsome though he is I can't see him sitting still long enough for me to even get an outline. It's hard to get the shots when he keeps rubbing up against my legs, purring and flicking his cream-tipped tail. At times I have to run away an turn quickly to capture him trotting toward me.
The composition of the painting is curious. My eyes are moving from place to place unable to decide what the focus of the piece is. I can only imagine that the art reflects the chaos inside the artist. The colours are vivid, almost to the point of garish. The stroke lines are bold and the images from out of this world. It is both stunning and head-ache inducing, it's like a novel condensed onto a single page. I'd like to see it as a series of paintings with each idea given time and space to be expressed, to communicate the meaning that was inside its creator.
If you saw her on the street you might think she was ordinary with her thin brown hair that went down to her chin and curled there. She had large brown eyes and wore too big jeans and t-shirts, jingly bracelets always playing about her wrists - but the most unusual thing about her was that she was covered in paint. She was streaked through with thousands of amazing colors. People didn't always see it, but she was. So that day when WCTA had rejected her and labeled her as not good enough she was broken. She'd climbed into the shower, smacking paintbrushes against the white tiles, leaving patches of purple, green, orange and red. She'd scrubbed soap onto her skin, watching the ink slither down her body and swirl onto the floor, getting sucked into the drain. Art was everywhere and to me she was art itself.
Sitting at a desk with an assignment slapped onto the table, but instead he is delved deep into his sketches. Pages upon pages of ideas, the smallest inquiry of what wanders in his mind. The pencil swirls with every flick of his wrist, satisfying streaks of graphite adorn the paper. Glorious creatures jump off the pages. Often scolded for being off task, he ignores the consistent scolding and returns to what he loves most. His black-rimmed glasses always needing to be pushed up against his nose; his blonde hair always needing to be flung back when it interfered with his art. Fingers smeared with lead, clothes covered in eraser shreds. When he looks up to notice the rest of the world, his blue eyes take in everything, pale and understanding. One stare and you're drowning in them. Always known as "the artist," or "the best I've seen," when in passing. But to himself, in the quiet of his bedroom, he is just another soul facing the trivialities of the day; another pawn, always gazing into nothing in particular, using his gift as an outlet against his own morality. One of the few who break society's brand. Truly a walking piece of art. (out of tribute to a good friend)
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.