If it is the love of that which your work represents--if, being a
landscape painter, it is love of hills and trees that moves
you--if, being a figure painter, it is love of human beauty, and
human soul that moves you--if, being a flower or animal painter,
it is love, and wonder, and delight in petal and in limb that
move you, then the Spirit is upon you, and the earth is yours,
and the fullness thereof.
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Only when he no longer knows what he is doing does the painter do good things
Only when he no longer knows what he is doing does the painter do good things
I paint objects as I think them, not as I see them.
I paint objects as I think them, not as I see them.
Hard features every bungler can command:
To draw true beauty shows a master's hand.
Hard features every bungler can command:
To draw true beauty shows a master's hand.
Painting is an infinitely minute part of my personality.
Painting is an infinitely minute part of my personality.
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.
Painting with all its technicalities, difficulties, and peculiar
ends, is nothing but a noble and expressive language, invaluable
read more
Painting with all its technicalities, difficulties, and peculiar
ends, is nothing but a noble and expressive language, invaluable
as the vehicle of thought, but by itself nothing.
And those who paint 'em truest praise 'em most.
And those who paint 'em truest praise 'em most.
The world today doesn't make sense, so why should I paint pictures that do?
The world today doesn't make sense, so why should I paint pictures that do?
One picture in ten thousand, perhaps, ought to live in the
applause of mankind, from generation to generation until read more
One picture in ten thousand, perhaps, ought to live in the
applause of mankind, from generation to generation until the
colors fade and blacken out of sight or the canvas rot entirely
away.
