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    The shadow of the trees lengthen and pool together, a rising tide of dark, a lifting veil of blue and violet night. Across the western sky a streak of cloud hangs, its shadow charcoal, its face luminous blood and flame. Palm trees march toward it in a weaving row, their round shock of fronds burning in the last light of the day.

    The horizon lifts. The sun drops behind the endless curve. The color fades from the cloud and falls back to blend with the sullen sky. On the ground, night arrives as a lake of violet dark, transforming the narrow street into a dark expanse of open field, the marching rows of houses to squared blocks of standing stone, the trees against the darkening sky to a limitless parkland of silhouette.

    I see this and turn to paint, to attempt to capture even a hint of the glow of this fading light, a taste of the encroaching dark, to capture the sense, the feeling of being immersed right here, right now...

    I battle with the image, wrestle with the color, outside myself for the long moment that stretches into hours—each daub of paint a piece of the puzzle, each painting a house of cards. I know, but try not to know that every mark of the brush may be the last, may be that one stroke too many—too dark, too light, too dull—that final, murderous stroke that drops me out of the illusion and into the paint; that makes me lift a wad of cloth, wipe the color from the panel, sigh, and begin again.​

    CB MacNeil


    California State University Long Beach

    California State University Long Beach

    Palomar College

    If you could say it in words, there would be no reason to paint.
    ~Edward Hopper

    I don't like to make a distinction between the writer and the painter, finally, because I do both things anyway. Everybody's dreaming and trying to put down their dreams in the way that their hand knows best. I feel as much a unity, as much comradeship, with painters as I do writers.
    ~Clive Barker

    You might as well ask an artist to explain his art, or ask a poet to explain his poem. It defeats the purpose. The meaning is only clear thorough the search.
    ~Rick Riordan

    I am unable to make any distinction between the feeling I get from life and the way I translate that feeling into painting.
    ~Henri Matisse

    Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.
    ~Henry Ward Beecher

    I don't paint dreams or nightmares, I paint my own reality.
    ~Frida Kahlo

    I have an idea that the only thing which makes it possible to regard this world we live in without disgust is the beauty which now and then men create out of the chaos. The pictures they paint, the music they compose, the books they write, and the lives they lead. Of all these the richest in beauty is the beautiful life. That is the perfect work of art.
    ~W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil

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