Sickness, insanity and death were the angels that surrounded my cradle and they have followed me throughout my life.
Edvard MunchRead
I do not believe in the art which is not the compulsive result of man's urge to open his heart
Interpretation
True art is driven by the deep emotions and authenticity of the artist.
In this quote, Edvard Munch emphasizes that genuine art emerges from the artist's profound emotional experiences and innate desire to express their innermost feelings. He suggests that art is not merely a technical execution but rather a heartfelt outpouring that reflects the artist's soul and humanity.
In practice
Referencing this quote at an art exhibition to emphasize the emotional connection behind the artwork.
Sickness, insanity and death were the angels that surrounded my cradle and they have followed me throughout my life.
I donβt believe in an art that is not born out of manβs need to open his heart.
Through my art I have tried to explain my life and its meaning. I have also intended to help others to clarify their lives.
My fear of life is necessary to me, as is my illness. Without anxiety and illness, I am a ship without a rudder. My art is grounded in reflections over being different from others. My sufferings are part of my self and my art. They are indistinguishable from me, and their destruction would destroy my art. I want to keep those sufferings
At different moments you see with different eyes. You see differently in the morning than you do in the evening. In addition, how you see is also dependent on your emotional state. Because of this, a motif can be seen in many different ways, and this is what makes art interesting.
From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity.
I knew I had to write a Mass of my own, but a real one.
That's the kind of music I want SoulBird to represent: music with intelligence and heart, music that moves people in their souls and their bodies. Music with wings.
I remember the Chillicothe ballplayers grappling the Long Island ball players in a sixteen-inning game ended by darkness. And the shoulders of the Chillicothe players were a red smoke against the sundown and the shoulders of the Rock Island players were a yellow smoke against the sundown. And the umpire's voice was hoarse calling balls and strikes and outs and the umpire's throat fought in the dust for a song.
A writer is dreamed and transfigured into being by spells, wishes, goldfish, silhouettes of trees, boxes of fairy tales dropped in the mud, uncles' and cousins' books, tablets and capsules and powders...and then one day you find yourself leaning here, writing on that round glass table salvaged from the Park View Pharmacy--writing this, an impossibility, a summary of who you came to be where you are now, and where, God knows, is that?
I do not think writers or anybody would sit down and think they must write about some cause, or theme, or something. If they write about their own experiences, something true is going to emerge.
Dance is not endangered - it will always find a way to express itself.
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