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Quote by Stewart Stafford

“Ambiguity is your ally: an interpretive dance with universal truths, not an observation post. An artist enlightens; the interpreter chooses to bathe in that light. Or, fearing being 'wrong' or lacking critical thinking, they await spoon-feeding. Being Irving The Explainer is not the artist's job. You don't go to an art gallery to ask a painter what their painting means (they have wisely left the scene of the crime!). You either get it or you don't, and it should wash over you and be appreciated either way. Impose the tyranny of explanation upon it, and you may kill any meaning, if there is any to unearth. Artists may not even know their intentions when putting something out into the cosmos. Ambiguity, then, is the fertile hinterland between The Emperor's New Clothes and the Highlands of Pretentiousness.”

Quote by Stewart Stafford

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Stewart Stafford

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“The worst thing you can do to an artist is demand they explain themselves. Stanislavsky said a raised voice has no place in art — nor does cross-examination. An ambiguous space to breathe in is the lifeblood of all creativity. Despite the implied tag of ownership from financial benefactors, the artist must resist becoming a preserved butterfly on a pin for study.”

“It's probably for the best that Van Gogh isn't around to see his work selling for squillions of dollars, as he'd probably start painting for that market. He may have lost an ear, but he'd still have that magic eye and a new nose for a deal. We're denied access to this poor man's genius by having the richest people on earth hanging his life's work in their mansions.”

“When you're restless, you're alive and awake, not sleepwalking in your life or in your creative practice. You value independent thinking of compliance, experimentation, and risk over the sure thing. Restless riders are flexible and nimble; they resist doing the same thing again, and again, even if that thing was successful and well received. They refused to rest on their laurels.”

“He painted trees as by some special divining instinct of their essential qualities. He understood them. He knew why in an oak forest, for instance, each individual was utterly distinct from its fellows, and why no two beeches in the whole world were alike. People asked him down to paint a favorite lime or silver birch, for he caught the individuality of a tree as some catch the individuality of a horse. How he managed it was something of a puzzle, for he never had painting lessons, his drawing was often wildly inaccurate, and, while his perception of a Tree Personality was true and vivid, his rendering of it might almost approach the ludicrous. Yet the character and personality of that particular tree stood there alive beneath his brush—shining, frowning, dreaming, as the case might be, friendly or hostile, good or evil. It emerged.”

“I want you to know, if you ever read this, there was a time when I would rather have had you by my side than any one of these words; I would rather have had you by my side than all the blue in the world. But now you are talking as if love were a consolation. Simone Weil warned otherwise. 'Love is not consolation,' she wrote. 'It is light.' All right then, let me try to rephrase. When I was alive, I aimed to be a student not of longing but of light.”