Art does not exist only to entertain, but also to challenge one to think, to provoke, even to disturb, in a constant search for truth.

If you feel stuck in your life or in your art, few jump-starts are more effective than a week of reading deprivation. No reading? That's right: no reading. It is a paradox that by emptying our lives of distractions we are actually filling the well. Without distractions, we are once again thrust into the sensory world. With no newspaper to shiel us, a train becomes a viewing gallery. With novel to sink into (and no television to numb us out) an evening become a vast savannah in which furniture — and other assumptions — get rearranged. We are cast into our inner silence. Our reward will be a new outflow. Our own art, our own thoughts and feelings, will begin to nudge aside the sludge of blockage, to loosen it and move it upward and outward until once again our wellis running freely.

As artists, we are perpetually seeking to penetrate the veil of cultural prescriptions and arrive at personal truth. In order to do this, we need to be brave enough with — and open enough to — our own internal territory that our art can express it. In orther words, we must be able to face down shame and choose self-disclosure. This takes courage.

This wonderful poem was published in the book The Taylors of Ongar by Doris Mary Armitage, Cambridge: W. Heffer & Sons Ltd. , 1939. p. 181-182.

When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet hushaby,
And rock'd me that I should not cry?
My Mother.

Who sat and watch'd my infant head,
When sleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My Mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gaz'd upon my heavy eye,
And wept, for fear that I should die?
My Mother.

Who drest my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play,
And minded all I had to say?
My Mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
My Mother.

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
And love God's holy book and day,
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way?
My Mother.

And can I ever cease to be

Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.

The real art of conversation is not only to say the right thing at the right place but to leave unsaid the wrong thing at the tempting moment.

C, n.: A programming language that is sort of like Pascal except more like assembly except that it isn't very much like either one, or anything else. It is either the best language available to the art today, or it isn't.

The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all art and science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime.

Making a piece of art may feel a lot like telling a family secret. Secret telling, by its very nature, involves shame and fear. It asks the question "What will they think of me once they know this?" This is a frightening question, particularly if we have ever been made to feel ashamed for our curiosities and explorations — social, sexual, spiritual. The act of making art exposes a society to itself. Art brings things to light. It illuminates us. It sheds light on our lingering darkness. It casts a beam into the heart of our own darkness and says, "See?"

The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.

As artists, we have a different kind of accountability than many people. What pays us and pays off in the long run is really the caliber of our work. As artists, we have an inner Geiger counter and it ticks loud and clear when we are near pay dirt — first-rate, high-caliber ore that means we are working at the top of our form. Because this device is an inner one, it isn't easily fooled by the prestige of a certain venue or the lack of another. What it detects is quality. It knows the real thing when it is near it. This is what "accountability" is for an artist, the blunt assessment: Is it any good? It boils down to the simple fact that artists respect good art — and we respect ourselves when we make it.

When I think of art I think of beauty. Beauty is the mystery of life. It is not in the eye it is in the mind. In our minds there is awareness of perfection.

The great art of learning is to understand but little at a time.

Life is not an exact science, it is an art

Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.

God is present everywhere. The act of making art is a direct path to contact with God, and we do not need to travel any geographic or psychic distance to experience the grace of creation in the grace of our own creating. Goethe told us, "Whatever you think you can do, or believe you can do, begin it, because action has magic, grace and power in it." This was no mere bromide. It was a report on spiritual experience — an experience that each of us can have whenever we surrender to being a beginner, whenever we dismantle our adult's aloof avoidance and actively seek the Great Creator's hand by reaching out our own to start anew.

Civilization is the art of living in towns of such size the everyone does not know everyone else.

The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science.

Art is the act of structuring time. "Look at it this way," a piece of art says. "Here's how I see it." This is particularly true when what we are dealing with is an artistic loss. Every loss must always be viewed as a potential gain. Every ending is a beginning. We know that. But we tend to forget it as we move through grief. Struck by a loss, we focus, understandably, on what we leave behind. We need to focus on what lies ahead. This can be tricky. We may not know what lies ahead. And, if the present hurts this badly, we tend to view the future as impending pain. "Gain disguised as loss" is a potent artist's tool. To acquire it, simply, brutally ask: "How can this loss serve me? Where does it point my work?" The answers will surprise and liberate you. The trick is to metabolize pain as energy. The key to doing that is to know, to trust, and to act as if a silver lining exists if you are only willing to look at the work differently or walk through a different door.