My art is rooted in a single reflection: why am I not as others are? My art gives meaning to my life.
EDVARD MUNCHJust as Leonardo da Vinci studied human anatomy and dissected corpses, so I try to dissect souls.
More Edvard Munch Quotes
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But can they great works get rid of the worm that lies gnawing at the roots of my heart? No, never.
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Death is pitch-dark, but colors are light. To be a painter, one must work with rays of light.
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I learned early about the misery and dangers of life, and about the afterlife, about the external punishment which awaited the children of sin in Hell.
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I build a kind of wall between myself and t he model so that I can paint in peace behind it. Otherwise, she might say something that confuses and distracts me.
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The notes I have made are not a diary in the ordinary sense, but partly lengthy records of my spiritual experiences, and partly poems in prose.
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I should have considered it wrong to have finished the Frieze before the room for its accommodation and the funds for its completion were available.
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Without fear and disease, my life would be like a boat without oars.
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A work of art can only come from the interior of man. Art is the form of the image formed upon the nerves, heart, brain and eye of man.
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The rich man who gives, steals twice over. First he steals the money and then the hearts of men.
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Anybody who perceives colors can become a painter. It’s simply a question of whether or not one has felt anything and whether one has the courage to recount the things one has felt.
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Youth must go ahead and prosper. These young painters are all very talented people, but they all paint frescoes.
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Disease, insanity, and death were the angels that attended my cradle, and since then have followed me throughout my life.
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A work of art comes only from inside a human being.
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Certainly a chair can be just as interesting as a human being. But first the chair must be perceived by a human being… You should not paint the chair, but only what someone has felt about it.
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I was walking along the road with two friends. The sun set. I felt a tinge of melancholy. Suddenly the sky became a bloody red. I stood there, trembling with fright. And I felt a loud, unending scream piercing nature.
EDVARD MUNCH