The Prompter Room

For Friday, May 25, 2018:

 

Creativity is a wild mind and a disciplined eye.

Dorothy Parker

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The Prompter Room

For Tuesday, May 22, 2018:

 

When I see a viewer fall into a painting I have painted, I feel connected to what I really know.  It doesn’t all happen just for me, I am a translator.  It’s shared and a mystery.  When a viewer falls into that with me, I love it.  It’s real to me.  It’s vulnerable, it moves and I dig that.

Leon Hushcha, 2018

(The Art of Leon Hushcha, solo exhibition at the Museum of Russian Art in Minneapolis, Minnesota)

The Prompter Room

For Tuesday, May 15, 2018:

 

[The artist] has only to translate the sufferings and happiness of all into the language of all and he will be universally understood. As a reward for being absolutely faithful to reality, he will achieve complete communication among men.

Albert Camus, ‘Create Dangerously,’ RESISTANCE, REBELLION, AND DEATH

The Prompter Room

For Tuesday, May 8, 2018:

 

… However glorious the history of art, the history of artists is quite a different matter. And in any well-ordered household the very thought that one of the young men may turn out to be an artist can be a cause for general alarm. It may be a point of great pride to have a Van Gogh on the living room wall, but the prospect of having Van Gogh himself in the living room would put a good many devoted art lovers to rout …

Ben Shahn, ‘On Nonconformity,’ THE SHAPE OF CONTENT

The Prompter Room

For Tuesday, April 24, 2018:

 

For the sake of a few lines one must see many cities, men and things. One must know the animals, one must feel how the birds fly and know the gesture with which the small flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected meetings and to partings … to days in rooms withdrawn and quiet and to mornings by the sea … to nights of travel that rushed along on high and flew with all the stars … 

And still it is not enough to have memories. One … must have the great patience to wait until they come again. For it is not yet the memories themselves. Not until they have turned to blood within us, to glance, to gesture, nameless and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves — not until then can it happen that in a most rare hour the first word of a verse arises in their midst and goes forth from them.

Rainer Maria Rilke, THE NOTEBOOKS OF MALTE LAURIDE BRIGGE