With age, art and life become one.
Georges BraqueRead
Once an object has been incorporated in a picture it accepts a new destiny.
Interpretation
This quote reflects the transformative power of art and how objects can take on new meanings when depicted in a creative context.
Georges Braque suggests that when an object is placed within the frame of a picture, it transcends its original purpose or identity to assume a new existence shaped by the artist's vision. This illustrates the concept that art allows for recontextualization, enabling us to see familiar things in novel ways, thereby altering our perception and understanding of both the object and the world around us.
In practice
In a discussion about the influence of artistic representation, this quote can illustrate how art changes our perception of objects.
With age, art and life become one.
The painting is finished when the idea has disappeared.
Truth exists, only falsehood has to be invented.
There is only one valuable thing in art: the thing you cannot explain.
One has to guard against a formula that is good for everything, that can interpret reality in addition to the other arts, and that rather than creating can only result in a style, or a stylization.
Painting is a nail to which I fasten my ideas.
I paint things as they are. I don't comment. I record.
Acutely aware of the poverty of my means, language became obstacle. At every page I thought, 'That's not it.' So I began again with other verbs and other images. No, that wasn't it either. But what exactly was that it I was searching for? It must have been all that eludes us, hidden behind a veil so as not to be stolen, usurped and trivialized. Words seemed weak and pale.
Once it happened, as I lay awake at night, that I suddenly spoke in verses, in verses so beautiful and strange that I did not venture to think of writing them down, and then in the morning they vanished; and yet they lay hidden within me like the hard kernel within an old brittle husk.
The evening light was like honey in the trees When you left me and walked to the end of the street Where the sunset abruptly ended. The wedding-cake drawbridge lowered itself To the fragile forget-me-not flower. You climbed aboard. Burnt horizons suddenly paved with golden stones, Dreams I had, including suicide, Puff out the hot-air balloon now. It is bursting, it is about to burst
I believe in previous lives and the Museβand that books and music exist before they are written and that they are propelled into material being by their own imperative to be born, via the offices of those willing servants of discipline, imagination and inspiration whom we call artists.
Write as the wind blows and command all words like an army!
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