The ear disapproves but tolerates certain musical pieces; transfer them into the domain of our nose, and we will be forced to flee.
Jean CocteauRead
The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication: that is why so many bad artists are unable to give it up.
Interpretation
The true value of art lies in the personal experience and pleasure it brings, rather than external recognition or acclaim.
Jean Cocteau's quote highlights the intrinsic reward of creating art, emphasizing that the joy and passion derived from the process itself outweighs societal measures of success like fame. It suggests that the compulsion to create often comes from an emotional or spiritual 'intoxication' rather than the pursuit of accolades, which is why some artists continue to create despite lacking widespread acknowledgment or commercial success.
In practice
During an art exhibition, one might refer to this quote to emphasize the passion behind the artist's work.
The ear disapproves but tolerates certain musical pieces; transfer them into the domain of our nose, and we will be forced to flee.
One must be a living man and a posthumous artist.
All good music resembles something. Good music stirs by its mysterious resemblance to the objects and feelings which motivated it.
Nothing ever gets anywhere. The earth keeps turning round and gets nowhere. The moment is the only thing that counts.
Listen carefully to first criticisms made of your work. Note just what it is about your work that critics don't like - then cultivate it. That's the only part of your work that's individual and worth keeping.
Watch yourself all your life in a mirror and you'll see Death at work like bees in a glass hive.
I am not interested in shock tactics. I just want to make beautiful clothes.
Horror, of all the genres, is the only one that can provoke an involuntary visceral reaction.
A sky as pure as water bathed the stars and brought them out.
The newspaper is, in fact, very bad for one's prose style. That's why I gravitated towards feature stories where you get a little more leeway in the writing style.
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.
Nothing is contrived. At night, the clothes should pour like liquid over the body.
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