You can't, 'cause, like, you look around, every... Every street, every boulevard is its own special art form. And when you think that in the cold, violent, meaningless universe, that Paris exists, these lights... I mean, come on, there's nothing happening on Jupiter or Neptune, but from way out in space... You can see these lights, the cafes, people drinking, and singing... I mean, for all we know, Paris is the hottest spot in the universe.
The art is eternal, their shapes are changing.
The universe is almost what we would have to call an art making machine, an engine for the production of ever more novel forms of connectedness, ever more exotic juxtapositions of disparate elements.
Explanation:
from the lecture "Opening the Doors of Creativity", 1990.
— Hello, handsome!
— You cut my head off a couple dozen times.
— Someone's been the busiest little beaver.
— What are you gonna do with that?
— I was thinking about fucking you up.
— You remember in 'Raiders', that asshole who was twirling a sword around and around, thinking he was all cool and shit? Indy just shot him 'cause he was exhausted, impatient, and just couldn't take the bullshit anymore. You remember that?
— Yeah.
— Fuck!
<...>
— Fun fact. Harrison Ford had the shits and that's why he shot that guy.
No Art can be grafted with success on another art. For though they all profess the same origin, and to proceed from the same stock, yet each has its own peculiar modes both of imitating nature, and of deviating from it, each for the accomplishment of its own particular purpose. These deviations, more especially, will not bear transplantation to another soil.
Jak świat światem, rozrywka zawsze miała stokroć większe powodzenie od wielkiej sztuki.
Art gets what it wants and art gets what it deserves.
Patronage during the Renaissance was considered quite a responsible affair. Philanthropists supported artists, believed in them and never allowed themselves to interfere directly with the creative process of people of art. I myself profess similar principles in the field of cooperation with outstanding cultural figures.
If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceasd lover,
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And though they be outstripped by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.
S’il n’était rien de bleu que le ciel et la mer,
De blond que les épis, de rose que les roses,
S’il n’était de beauté qu’aux insensibles choses,
Le plaisir d’admirer ne serait point amer.
Mais avec l’océan, la campagne et l’éther,
Des formes d’un attrait douloureux sont écloses
Le charme des regards, des sourires, des poses,
Mord trop avant dans l’âme, ô femme! il est trop cher
Nous t’aimons, et de là les douleurs infinies:
Car Dieu, qui fit la grâce avec des harmonies,
Fit l’amour d’un soupir qui n’est pas mutuel.
Mais je veux, revêtant l’art sacré pour armure,
Voir des lèvres, des yeux, l’or d’une chevelure,
Comme l’épi, la rose, et la mer, et le ciel.
It's said that a centaur's road is paved with the corpses of the fallen. For the one called Warrunner, it has been a long road indeed. To outsiders, the four-legged clans of Druud are often mistaken for simple, brutish creatures. Their language has no written form; their culture lacks pictographic traditions, structured music, formalized religion. For centaurs, combat is the perfect articulation of thought, the highest expression of self. If killing is an art among centaurs, then Bradwarden the Warrunner is their greatest artist. He rose to dominance on the proving grounds of Omexe, an ancient arena where centaur clans have for millennia gathered to perform their gladiatorial rites. As his fame spread, spectators came from far and wide to see the great centaur in action. Always the first to step into the arena, and the last to leave, he composes a masterpiece in each guttering spray, each thrust of blood-slickened blade-length. It is the poetry of blood on steel, flung in complex patterns across the pale sands of the killing floor. Warrunner defeated warrior after warrior, until the arena boomed with the cheering of his name, and he found himself alone, the uncontested champion of his kind. The great belt of Omexe was bestowed, wrapped around his broad torso, but in his victory, the death-artist found only emptiness. For what is a warrior without a challenge? The great centaur galloped out of Omexe that day with a new goal. To his people, Warrunner is the greatest warrior to ever step into the arena. Now he has set out to prove he is the greatest fighter who has ever lived.