A man paints with his brains and not with his hands.
Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.
Genius is eternal patience.
It is necessary to keep one's compass in one's eyes and not in the hand, for the hands execute, but the eye judges.
If you knew how much work went into it, you wouldn't call it genius.
What spirit is so empty and blind, that it cannot recognize the fact that the foot is more noble than the shoe, and skin more beautiful than the garment with which it is clothed?
Patience is eternal genius
As you give out, so shall you receive.
Death and love are the two wings that bear the good man to heaven.
Draw, Antonio; draw, Antonio; draw and don’t waste time.
The sculpture is already complete within the marble block, before I start my work. It is already there, I just have to chisel away the superfluous material.
Beauty is the purgation of superfluities.
Why do You Send Fools To judge My Work?
Critique by creating.
No thought is born in me that does not bear the image of death.
As when, O lady mine, With chiselled touch, The stone unhewn and cold, Becomes a living mould, The more the marble wastes, The more the statue grows.
If I am more alive because love burns and chars me, as a fire, given wood or wind, feels new elation, it's that he who lays me low is my salvation, and invigorates the more, the more he scars me.
With few words I shall make thee understand my soul.
Dear to me is sleep: still more, being made of stone, While pain and guilt still linger here below, Blindness and numbness--these please me alone; Then do not wake me, keep your voices low.
Read the heart and not the letter for the pen cannot draw near the good intent.
So now, from this mad passion Which made me take art for an idol and a king I have learnt the burden of error that it bore And what misfortune springs from man's desire... The world's frivolities have robbed me of the time That I was given for reflecting upon God.
From such a gentle thing, from such a fountain of all delight, my every pain is born.
Is it any wonder, since, when near the fire, I was melted and burned, if now that it's extinguished outside me, it besets and consumes me inside, and bit by bit reduces me to ashes?
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