There's no palette as rich as a garden. And the intensity of it - I make this statement all the time: You can't plan nature; you court her.
Robert IrwinRead
I slowly dismantled the act of painting, to consider the possibility that no-thing ever really transcends its immediate environment.
Interpretation
The quote conveys that art is deeply intertwined with its surroundings and that context is vital to understanding it.
Robert Irwin's quote suggests that the act of painting is not just about the artwork itself, but also about how it interacts with and is influenced by its environment. By dismantling the traditional views of painting, he emphasizes the importance of context and perspective in appreciating art, indicating that nothing exists in isolation and must be considered in relation to its surroundings.
In practice
In a discussion about the significance of art, this quote could be used to highlight the relationship between art and its environment.
There's no palette as rich as a garden. And the intensity of it - I make this statement all the time: You can't plan nature; you court her.
Fandom, after all, is born of a balance between fascination and frustration: if media content didn't fascinate us, there would be no desire to engage with it; but if it didn't frustrate us on some level, there would be no drive to rewrite or remake it.
The dimensions of a work of art are seldom realized by the author until the work is accomplished. It is like a flowering dream. Ideas grow, budding silently, and there are a thousand illuminations coming day by day as the work progresses. A seed grows in writing as in nature. The seed of the idea is developed by both labor and the unconscious, and the struggle that goes on between them.
Words are really beautiful, but they're limited. Words are very male, very structured. But the voice is the netherworld, the darkness, where there's nothing to hang onto. The voice comes from a part of you that just knows and expresses and is.
An actress can only play a woman. I'm an actor, I can play anything.
A good [short story] would take me out of myself and then stuff me back in, outsized, now, and uneasy with the fit.
Her fine high forehead sloped gently up to where her hair, bordering it like an armorial shield, burst into lovelocks and waves and curlicues of ash blonde and gold. Her eyes were bright, big, clear, wet and shining, the colour of her cheeks was real, breaking close to the surface from the strong young pump of her heart. Her body hovered delicately on the last edge of childhood -- she was almost eighteen, nearly complete, but the dew was still on her.
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