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Art for art’s sake was a lovely idea in theory. But art alone couldn’t pay the bills.
This.
“Twenty-five means you’re old enough to know better, young enough to do it anyway.
Amen
“The devil doesn’t smile,” he said. “The devil smirks.”
Okay purrrrrr
If you’re anything like the other Monas I’ve known, I have no doubt I’ll get my money’s worth and then some.”
“Millions of paintings in this world. Only one Mona Lisa. Billions of women in this world. Only one you, Mona Lisa St. James.”
The painting had shocked viewers for the forthright way Olympia held up her head. Shameless, she was. Unapologetic. Why should she apologize?
They only cared if someone dared to break their rules of composition, of acceptable subject matter. You could show a naked woman hiding her face or lying supine and limp as a wet rag. God forbid he paint a girl who dared them to look her in the eyes.”
Art should be dangerous, you know. It should say something to society that society doesn’t want to hear. Do you know what the opposite of art is? Propaganda. There’s too much of that in the world. Not enough art.
This is beautiful
“The devil wants your soul. I only want your body.”
They were fools. And she was one of them. A nymph in a moon-white gown. A creature of myth and mist. A girl kissed by goddesses and mated by satyrs.
It’s one thing to allow a man to pleasure you. It’s quite another to allow him to hurt you.
What magic was it, what sorcery that could turn an act of violence and pain into an act of adoration and affection? It was alchemy, the art of turning base things into gold.
