My health may be better preserved if I exert myself less, but in the end doesn't each person give his life for his calling?
Clara SchumannRead
I once believed that I possessed creative talent, but I have given up this idea; a woman must not desire to compose — there has never yet been one able to do it. Should I expect to be the one?
Interpretation
The quote reflects a struggle with self-belief in artistic talent, particularly in the context of societal gender norms.
Clara Schumann's quote reveals her internal conflict regarding her artistic aspirations and the societal limitations placed on women in the 19th century. She questions whether she, as a woman, can ever achieve the creative greatness expected in the realm of composition, highlighting the discouragement faced by women artists of her time. This sentiment echoes the broader theme of the struggle against gender biases that restrict individuality and talent.
In practice
This quote can be used during a discussion on the challenges female artists face.
My health may be better preserved if I exert myself less, but in the end doesn't each person give his life for his calling?
There is nothing greater than the joy of composing something oneself and then listening to it.
Composing gives me great pleasure... there is nothing that surpasses the joy of creation, if only because through it one wins hours of self-forgetfulness, when one lives in a world of sound.
I cannot give a single concert at which I do not play one piece after the other in an agony of terror because my memory threatens to fail me. This fear torments me for days beforehand.
Art is too serious to be taken seriously.
Isn’t every human being both a scientist and an artist; and in writing of human experience, isn’t there a good deal to be said for recognizing that fact and for using both methods?
What I remember when I started to write was how I couldn't wait to get up in the morning to get to my characters.
There is nothing so necessary for men as dancing.
Against Him those women sin who torment their skin with potions, stain their cheeks with rouge and extend the line of their eyes with black coloring. Doubtless they are dissatisfied with God's plastic skill. In their own persons they convict and censure the Artificer of all things.
Any man who can write a page of living prose adds something to our life, and the man who can, as I can, is surely the last to resent someone who can do it even better. An artist cannot deny art, nor would he want to. A lover cannot deny love.
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