What I have to express is not handled with words. It must 'come' tot the observer. It must carry its influence over the mind of the individual into t… - Marsden Hartley

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What I have to express is not handled with words. It must 'come' tot the observer. It must carry its influence over the mind of the individual into that region of him which is more than the mind. The pictures must reach inwards into the deeper experiences of the beholder – and mind you they care in no sense religious tracts – there is no story to them or literature – no morals – they are merely artistic expressions of mystical states – these in themselves being my own personal motives as drawn from either special experiences or aggregate ones.

English
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About Marsden Hartley

Marsden Hartley (January 4, 1877 – September 2, 1943) was an American Modernist painter and poet in the early 20th century. He lived and worked several years in Europe (Germany and France, Aix en Provence). The landscape was his favourite subject; Cézanne was his great inspiration, together with William Blake and Emerson's writings.

Also Known As

Alternative Names: Hartley Edmund Hartley
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Additional quotes by Marsden Hartley

I see the possibility of being 'made new' again and the gift of rebirth is all that lets anyone really live.. ..The great secret.. .. is never to get stuck, imprisoned in common social patterns. They always paralyse the real quality of life – the 'going onward' is all that matters, and the dead moments in one’s life through trying to be a unit in any society or social concept are terrifying really.

I learned this bit of wisdom from a principle of William Blake's which I discovered early and followed far too assiduously the first half of my aesthetic life, and from which I have happily released myself and this axiom was: "Put off intellect and put on imagination; the imagination is the man." From this doctrinal assertion evolved the theoretical axiom that you don't see a thing until you look away from it which was an excellent truism as long as the principles of the imaginative life were believed in and followed. I no longer believe in the imagination.

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For wine, they drank the ocean – for bread, they ate their own despairs; counsel from the moon was theirs – for the foolish contention - Murder is not a pretty thing – yet seas do raucous everything to make it pretty – for the foolish or the brave, a way seas have.

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