Excitable boy, they all said, he killed and raped her and brought her home.
For me, painting is a way to forget life. It is a cry in the night, a strangled laugh.
A tree against the sky possesses the same interest, the same character, the same expression as the figure of a human.
My only objective is to paint a Christ so moving that those who see him will be converted.
Subjective artists are one-eyed, but objective artists are blind.
Nothing is old, nothing is new, save the light of grace underneath which beats a human heart. The way of feeling, of understanding, of loving; the way of seeing the country, the faces that your father saw, that your mother knew. The rest is chimerical.
Anyone can revolt. It is more difficult silently to obey our own inner promptings, and to spend our lives finding sincere and fitting means of expression for our temperament and our gifts.
All of life and human relations have become so incomprehensibly complex that, when you think about it, it becomes terrifying and your heart stands still.
You don't change what you love or you never loved it to begin with.
I also liked to look around at the houses surrounding the park and wonder about the people who filled them, what kinds of marriages they had and how they loved or hurt each other on any given day, and if they were happy, and whether they thought happiness was a sustainable thing.
Despite serious reservations, I had to forgive Finnick for his role in the conspiracy that landed me here. He, at least has some idea of what I'm going through. And it takes too much energy to stay angry with someone who cries so much.