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A picture is a poem without words.
A picture is a poem without words.
From the mingled strength of shade and light
A new creation rises to my sight,
Such heav'nly read more
From the mingled strength of shade and light
A new creation rises to my sight,
Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with light his blended colors glow.
. . . .
The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring
Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring.
Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.
Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.
I only feel, but want the power to paint.
[Lat., Nequeo monstrare et sentio tantum.]
I only feel, but want the power to paint.
[Lat., Nequeo monstrare et sentio tantum.]
Painting is an infinitely minute part of my personality.
Painting is an infinitely minute part of my personality.
The picture that approaches sculpture nearest
Is the best picture.
The picture that approaches sculpture nearest
Is the best picture.
Vain is the hope by colouring to display
The bright effulgence of the noontide ray
Or paint read more
Vain is the hope by colouring to display
The bright effulgence of the noontide ray
Or paint the full-orb'd ruler of the skies
With pencils dipt in dull terrestrial dyes.
Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?
Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?
The fellow mixes blood with his colors.
The fellow mixes blood with his colors.
