Each color lives by its mysterious life.
Interpretation
Colors have their own unique essence and emotional significance in art.
Kandinsky suggests that each color has a distinct identity and resonates with different emotions and experiences. In the realm of art, colors are not merely visual components; they embody a depth of meaning and influence our perception and feelings in profound ways.
In practice
In an art critique discussing Kandinsky's techniques.
The true work of art is born from the 'artist': a mysterious, enigmatic, and mystical creation. It detaches itself from him, it acquires an autonomous life, becomes a personality, an independent subject, animated with a spiritual breath, the living subject of a real existence of being.
The artist must have something to say, for mastery over form is not his goal but rather the adapting of form to its inner meaning.
With cold eyes and indifferent mind the spectators regard the work. Connoissers admire the "skill" (as one admires a tightrope walker), enjoy the "quality of painting" (as one enjoys a pasty). But hungry souls go hungry away. The vulgar herd stroll through the rooms and pronounce the pictures "nice" or "splendid." Those who could speak have said nothing, those who could hear have heard nothing.
The sound of colors is so definite that it would be hard to find anyone who would express bright yellow with bass notes or dark lake with treble.
The more abstract is form, the more clear and direct its appeal.
All methods are sacred if they are internally necessary. All methods are sins if they are not justified by internal necessity.
An artist is someone who can hold two opposing viewpoints and still remain fully functional.
You see something, then it clicks with something else, and it will make a story. But you never know when it's going to happen.
To understand bad taste one must have very good taste.
Creativity, which is the expression of our originality, helps us stay mindful that what we bring to the world is completely original and cannot be compared.
Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,_x000D_ Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam_x000D_ And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.
But fantasy kills imagination, pornography is death to art.
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