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Quote by Rod Judkins

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Lie like an artist: Communicate successfully by focusing on essential truths

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Rod Judkins

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“Pink-rimmed, silver clouds billowing across a purple sunset, bleeding into a night sky flecked with glow-in-the-dark stars and a great, white moon—her childhood bedroom, back in Blackpines. Her mother had painted a princess, sitting in the moon’s crescent curve, her curly black hair catching stardust. The princess looked like her.”

LoveArtBeautyMothers And DaughtersComplicated Families
Book:Blackpines: The Antlers Witch: The Overcrowded Heart
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“For the very reason that here nothing served a purpose--not ever, not to anyone--and that here no guillotine of evolution was in play, amputating from every genotype whatever did not contribute to survival, nature, constrained neither by the life she bore nor by the death she inflicted, could achieve, liberation, displaying a prodigality characteristic of herself, a limitless wastefulness, a brute magnificence that was useless, an eternal power of creation without a goal, without a need, without a meaning.”

ArtNatureStanislaw Lem
Book:Fiasco (El libro de bolsillo - Bibliotecas de autor - Biblioteca Lem)
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“In the Spanish number the house was electrified. Everybody sat on the edge of his seat---the drums woke them up. I thought when the drums started it would keep up forever. I expected to see people fall out of the boxes or throw their hats away. There was something heroic about it and he could have driven us stark mad, Ravel, if he had wanted to. But that's not Ravel. Suddenly it all died down. It was as if he remembered, in the midst of his antics, that he had on a cutaway suit. He arrested himself. A great mistake, in my humble opinion. Art consists in going the full length. If you start with the drums you have to end with dynamite, or TNT. Ravel sacrificed something for form, for a vegetable that people digest before going to bed.”

Art
Author:Henry Miller
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“And then, suddenly, when the sun is beginning to warm my face, I'm there. In the zone where everything is perfect, and I'm drawing. Fingers, hand and charcoal pencil, even thought, are one and what I am, what I see, or part of it, is skimming across the page, darker here, lighter on the left, a smudging—deliberate—and feathering with spit. While inside, the crimson glow is burning, that bubble I carry within me where I store everything that happens, good or bad, where I can think about it when I'm alone, at night or on the street, waiting for the chance for cash and an easy screw. As the glow burns, it travels through my limbs, blood and bone, and into my head where something explodes like an electric shock, so I’m shivering, retching even as my hand still moves over paper, tasting vomit in my mouth but refusing to let it go, swallowing down the bitterness. And still I draw, sweat sticky on my forehead and under my arms, but the only part of me touching what I’m doing is my hand with its instrument for line and block and shadow. Nothing can harm me now.”

ArtFeelingMagical RealismPathetic Fallacy
Book:A Dangerous Man
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