I leaned out the window to feel the night’s deep blue, the same dark air that surrounded him in Genoa or Paris or wherever he was. I would give a great deal to know what he was thinking right at this...
Work is love made plain, whether man’s work or woman’s work.
Things will change, Father. They must. And art can help create the change.
That’s what great art is supposed to do—help us to live in the spirit and die at peace.
No matter where life takes you,’ she said, ‘the place where you stand at any moment is holy ground.
Nature is God’s work, so I say nature motifs are just as spiritual, just as inspirational, as biblical images.
In the end, it's only the moments that we have.
If, indeed, that was love, it wasn't enough.
If you want to preach, young man, you ought to wear some kind of clerical costume so people would be warned. In my mind, there are too many unpleasant things in life as it is without creating still mo...
Before this I had always held back, had never lived freely, not with Pietro, not even with Palmira, but here, where nothing was known, I did not fear judgment, and because Father and I shared the same...
Was it wrong for me to want more than constrained existence? Wrong to hunger for change, new faces, a full life? Surprises to please my eyes and ears?
Therefore, what I had been taught to fear I now embraced. Betrayal- his or mine, it didn't matter- freed me.
There was something in this girl he could never grasp, an inner life inscrutable to him. He was in awe of the child's flights of fancy, her insatiable passion always to be running off somewhere, her a...
She wasn't at peace the way that artist painted her. She was leaning forward, and the rigidness of her spine showed the ache in her soul. She was a desperate woman with frailties just like her, tempta...
Love is so easily bruised by the necessity of making choices.
A year passes like a revolving wheel, and when the spoke of January comes round again, it finds itself in a different place. And so with pain. It does not leave us where it found us.
We are not botanists. We are artists. Suggest nature, but conventionalize it. Stylize it. Simplify it to its contour lines to convey structure.
Think of ‘à Dieu,’ madame. It’s the Provençal way to wish a person to be with God when you meet him as well as when you leave him.
People who would be that close to her, she thought, a matter of a few arms' lengths, looking, looking, and they would never know her.
One more thing. She wears Patchouli. Every tart in Montmartre wears it. Place Pigalle reeks of it. If she wants to carry out her pose as an aristocrat, she ought to refine her tastes.