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T Quotes

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All T Quotes

“The painter was pleased with her work. She had managed to catch her sitter's characteristic expression—the look of a good child, a wondering sort of look, innocent and serious. It was humility, thought Rhoda. That was the keynote of Bel's character. Rhoda had never prized this virtue—she had thought it overrated—but now she realised that she had been mistaken. Humility was not just an absence of pride; it was not a negative virtue; it was a definite 'fruit of the spirit.' False humility was horrible, of course (vide Uriah Heap), but real humility, growing from within, was beautiful.”

“The painters have no copyright on modern art!... I believe in, and make no apologies for, photography: it is the most important graphic medium of our day. It does not have to be, indeed cannot be - compared to painting - it has different means and aims.”

“The painters were teenage girls and young women who became friendly during their hours together and entertained themselves during breaks by playing with the paint. They sprinkled the luminous liquid in their hair to make their curls twinkle in the dark. They brightened their fingernails with it. One girl covered her teeth to give herself a Cheshire cat smile when she went home at night. None of them considered this behavior risky.”

“The painting is always done very much with [the model's] co-operation. The problem with painting a nude, of course, is that it deepens the transaction. You can scrap a painting of someone's face and it imperils the sitter's self-esteem less than scrapping a painting of the whole naked body.”

“The painting looks beautiful.' 'It's nowhere near done,' I said, dredging up that girl who had shunned praise and compliments, who had wanted to go unnoticed. 'It's still a mess.' Frankly, it was some of my best work, even if it's soullessness was only apparent to me. 'I think we all are,' Tamlin offered with a tentative smile. I reined in the urge to roll my eyes, and returned his smile, brushing my hand over his shoulder as I passed.”

“The painting showed a hairless, oppressed creature with a head like an inverted pear, its hands clapped in horror to its ears, its mouth open in a vast, soundless scream. Twisted ripples of the creature's torment, echoes of its cry, flooded out into the air surrounding it; the man or woman, whichever it was, had become contained by its own howl. It had covered its ears against its own sound. The creature stood on a bridge and no one else was present; the creature screamed in isolation. Cut off by - or despite - its outcry.”

“The painting was a lie. A bright, pretty lie, bursting with pale pink blooms and fat beams of sunshine. I'd begun it yesterday, an idle study of the rose garden lurking beyond the open windows of the studio. Through the tangle of thorns and satiny leaves, the brighter greens of the hills rolled away into the distance. Incessant, unrelenting spring. If I'd painted this glimpse into the court the way my gut had urged me, it would have been flesh-shredding thorns, flowers that choked off the sunlight for any plants smaller than them, and rolling hills stained red. But each brushstroke on the wide canvas was calculated; each dab and swirl of blending colours meant to portray not just idyllic spring, but a sunny disposition as well. Not too happy, but gladly, finally healing from horrors I'd carefully divulged. I supposed that in the past weeks, I had crafted my demeanour as intricately as one of those paintings. I supposed that if I had also chosen to show myself as I truly wished, I would have adorned with flesh shredding talons, and hands that choked the life out of those now in my company. I would have left the gilded halls stained red.”

“The painting was framed in a misty view of sky, sea, and valley. Newt's painting was small, black, and warty. It consisted of scratches made in a black, gummy impasto. The scratches formed a sort of spider's web, and I wondered if they might not be the sticky nets of human futility hung up on a moonless night to dry.”

“The painting was so vibrant and alive with summertime that it seemed to fill the entire room with light. It depicted a small town on a summer day, and the people going about various tasks and activities. Over here was a picnic and happy children playing games, over there a postman delivering letters and chatting with a woman in curlers who was touching her hair in a way that suggested she was quite fond of the postman. Two boys in overalls and a young girl in a gingham dress were fishing by a stream beneath a big oak tree. A country church stood quietly at the end of town as if watching over all the people who would surely be sitting in its pews come Sunday morning.”