"The
simultaneous recognition, in a fraction of a second, of the significance
of an event as well as the precise organization of forms which gives
that event its proper expression... In photography, the smallest
thing can be a great subject. The little human detail can become
a leitmotif".
Henri
Cartier-Bresson quoted in 'Modern Culture and the Arts', ed. J.
Hall and B. Ulanov (1972)
"Unlike
western music, we don't have written compositions or any fixed things.
So, even I don't really know what it will be. That is the greatest
thrill for me, as well as the listener, because it is like cooking
fresh food and serving it hot".
Ravi
Shankar interviewed by John O'Mahony (The Guardian, June 3 2008)
"When
I do interviews, they say music, music, music, music, music
and
I say no, no, no, no. Music is second, the human being is first.
What is music for? What is anything for?"
Wayne
Shorter quoted in Footprints, Michelle Mercer (2004)
"Man,
I could have been a poet but this stupid music keeps coming with
it"
Townes
Van Zandt
The
truth of art lies in its power to break the monopoly of established
reality to define what is real
From
The Aesthetic Dimension: Toward a Critique of Marxist Aesthetics,
Herbert Marcuse (1978)
"All
the songs that I ever heard in my life was folk songs. I never heard
horses sing none of them yet"
Big
Bill Broonzy introduces This Train is Bound For Glory
from Big Bill Broonzy and Pete Seeger in Concert (1956)
Contrary to popular belief, the past was not more eventful than
the present
From
My Country Right or Left, George Orwell (1940)
The
Negro
With the trumpet at his lips
Has dark moons of weariness
Beneath his eyes
Where the smoldering memory
Of slave ships
Blazed to the crack of whips
About his thighs
The negro
With the trumpet at his lips
Has a head of vibrant hair
Tamed down,
Patent-leathered now
Until it gleams
Like jet-
Were jet a crown
The music
From the trumpet at his lips
Is honey
Mixed with liquid fire
The rhythm
From the trumpet at his lips
Is ecstasy
Distilled from old desire-
Desire
That is longing for the moon
Where the moonlight's but a spotlight
In his eyes,
Desire
That is longing for the sea
Where the sea's a bar-glass
Sucker size
The Negro
With the trumpet at his lips
Whose jacket
Has a fine one-button roll,
Does not know
Upon what riff the music slips
Its hypodermic needle
To his soul -
But softly
As the tune comes from his throat
Trouble
Mellows to a golden note
'Trumpet
Player', from 'Selected Poems', Langston Hughes (1959)
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