Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Silhouettes. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Silhouettes Quotes And Sayings by 97 Authors including V.e Schwab,Paul Celan,Thomas Wentworth Higginson,Jean De La Bruyere,Leonardo Da Vinci for you to enjoy and share.
There are many shadows in the night.
who
is invisible enough
to see you
What are Raphael's Madonnas but the shadow of a mother's love, fixed in permanent outline forever?
Modesty is to merit, what shade is to figures in a picture; it gives it strength and makes it stand out.
The draperies that clothe figures must show that they are inhabited by these figures, enveloping them neatly to show the posture and motion of such figures, and avoiding the confusion of many folds, especially over the prominent parts, so that these may be evident
If you have seen nothing but the beauty of their markings and limbs, their true beauty is hidden from you.
Ll dark hair and blue smudges in the moonlight.
Shadows which you see with difficulty, and whose boundaries you cannot define ... these you should not represent as finished or sharply defined, for the result would be that your work would seem wooden.
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet black bough.
The invisible and the non-existent look very much alike.
I like a very sexy silhouette, and I like to feel like when you put something on, you zip yourself into it, and you're secure in there.
We intend to hide our shortcomings, and the fear inside our hearts, but instead, we hide our beauty, our true selves.
I often try to photograph things about a person that are not visible.
Eyes skip a low-key profile.
Pictures of the corners of life that no one else saw.
fantastic shadows of birds
One knows that frontal and/or profile photography is torn to pieces ... Inversely, what remains of the photograph must be seen as a fragment coming to fill a gap in the drawing.
I can see one of them clearly now, walking
along with a newspaper tucked under his arm.
he has cut himself shaving and a bit of tissue
with a circle of blood is stuck to his cheek,
If you will observe, it doesn't take A man of giant mould to make A giant shadow on the wall; And he who in our daily sight Seems but a figure mean and small, Outlined in Fame's illusive light, May stalk, a silhouette sublime, Across the canvas of his time.
Catholic girls with tiny little mustaches.
Women! Dressed to kill the woman in them.
These people live again in print as intensely as when their images were captured on old dry plates of sixty years ago ... I am walking in their alleys, standing in their rooms and sheds and workshops, looking in and out of their windows. Any they in turn seem to be aware of me.
Everything in the world of soul has a deep desire and longing for visible form; this is exactly where the power of the imagination lives.
Even someone you've inhabited rooms with, and seen naked everyday, seen sitting on the toilet through a half-opened door, can fade out after a while and become an outline.
The people I see from my window. In the huts, in the distance. They're all dressed the same.' 'Ah, those people,' said Father, nodding his head and smiling slightly. 'Those people ... well, they're not people at all, Bruno.' Bruno frowned. 'They're not?' he asked, unsure what Father meant by that.
beholders. His features are strong and masculine, with an Austrian lip and arched nose, his complexion olive, his countenance erect, his body and limbs well proportioned, all his motions graceful, and his deportment majestic.
My work is a fusion of personal experiences and influences - moody atmospheres, victorian-inspired couture, and timeless elements all laced with clandestine symbolism. The figures I paint exist in their own esoteric realm and time, and each painting offers a glimpse into their anomalous world.
Eyes so transparent that through them the soul is seen.
Some people are beams of light in this world. Some are shadows. They don't always feel like they belong, or don't know how, so they stand in the back of the crowd, out of sight and off to the edge somewhere.
All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks. But in each event - in the living act, the undoubted deed - there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of
its features from behind the unreasoning mask.
You reach a moment in life when, among the people you have known, the dead outnumber the living. And the mind refuses to accept more faces, more expressions: on every new face you encounter, it prints the old forms, for each one it finds the most suitable mask.
It's fair to say that black folks operate under a cloud of invisibility - this too is part of the work, is indeed central to [my photographs] ... This invisibility - this erasure out of the complex history of our life and time - is the greatest source of my longing.
A glimpse, a little piece of their story, flapping like ribbon in the wind.
Every photographed object is merely the trace left behind by the disappearance of all the rest. It is an almost perfect crime, an almost total resolution of the world, which merely leave the illusion of a particular object shining forth, the image of which then becomes an impenetrable enigma.
Appearances are but a glimpse of what is hidden.
chased by the shadows of clouds.
Those masks we wear
not to shield others; but ourselves from who we are.
The anxiety we have for the figure we cut, for our personage, is constantly cropping out. We are showing off and are often more concerned with making a display than with living. Whoever feels observed observes himself.
Figures dark beneath their loads pass down the far bank of the river, rendered immortal by the streak of sunset upon their shoulders
How is it that men create such lovely silhouettes, such shadows of the corporeal, capturing things in their most wraith-like moment and yet they are not content with honing such divine talent? Instead, they opt to dissect the cadaver of that which cast the shadow.
Jace's arm looked like a map: runes spread down onto his collarbone and chest, the backs of his hands.
The road map of their bravery and hopes, their dreams and desires, marked clearly on their bodies. Shadowhunters weren't always the most forthcoming of people, but their skins were honest.
The sky was white but deteriorating fast. As always, it was becoming an enormous drop sheet. Blood was bleeding through, and in patches, the clouds were dirty, like footprints in melting snow.
Footprints? you ask.
Well, I wonder whose those could be.
I have designed my style pantomimes as white ink drawings on black backgrounds, so that man's destiny appears as a thread lost in an endless labyrinth. I have tried to shed some gleams of light on the shadow of man startled by his anguish.
nondescript individuals put in an appearance, Sherlock Holmes
The multicolored or grey lights touching their faces, but never really touching them ...
Just because you do not know how they look like, doesn't mean you cannot see them.-- A.d.y. Howle
I want shade, I want shade and anonymity.
from "The Departure
I couldn't see who swam in the darkness, who wore shadows like a second skin.
People who wear glasses, without them they always look unfocused, vulnerable. Out in the open. A layer removed.
We often walk without knowing the beautiful and the mysterious art created behind us by our shadows.
In art and life we're always reading bodies and behaviors (and skies and skylines or whatever), constructing brief and shifting coherences, and I guess I want to capture that process of characterization and re-characterization instead of offering up a few stable, easily-summarized individuals.
Character is defined by what you do when no one is looking, but the visible can shatter any perfect impression.
Beauty depends on the unseen, the visible upon the invisible
Our ideals, like pictures, are made from lights and shadows.
I am interested in the paradox between identity and uniformity, in the power and vulnerability of each individual and each group. It is in this paradox that I try to visualize by concentrating on poses, attitudes, gestures, and gazes.
I look at a nude. There are myriads of tiny tints. I must find the ones that will make the flesh on my canvas live and quiver.
into darkness. The figures of the two men were
The invisible are always so resolutely invisible, until you see them.
[ ... ] its small squares of fast-passing light, the early evening windows of the lives of hundreds of others.
From the mingled strength of shade and light A new creation rises to my sight, Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow, So warm with light his blended colors glow ... The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring.
Vehement silhouettes of Manhattan - that vertical city with unimaginable diamonds.
Shadows are in reality, when the sun is shining, the most conspicuous thing in a landscape, next to the highest lights.
Artmaking is making the invisible, visible.
The figures of the past go cloaked.
They walk in mist and rain and snow
And go, go slowly, but they go.
One sees that dead, vacant look steal over the rarest, finest of women's faces ... in the very midst, it may be, of their warmest summer's day; and then one can guess at the secret of intolerable solitude that lies hid beneath the delicate laces ...
They were all very much of a type, tall and narrow-faced, eyes pale blue and pale green and pale gray, their features sharp but oddly empty - young men who has never been lonely or afraid or devastated by grief.
Every day I studied the nude, and movement in the streets and in the shops. Out of the naturalistic surface with all its variations I wanted to derive the pictorially determined surface.
Shadows." The world seemed darker when he said it.
"Every man who walks the earth casts a shadow on the world. Some are thin and weak, others long and dark.
In a portrait, I'm looking for the silence in somebody.
People are attracted to vision. The
Battle against obscurity
Hypocrites - they wear gorgeous cloaks lined with lead; pretty outside, awful inside; heavy cloaks force them to behave sedately, although seething within; cloak true character in false appearance.
A person shows himself for an instant as in a photograph but clearer and in the background something which is bigger than his shadow.
so many people concentrate on looks, but the invisible is sacred
Through the side window, a screen of late-afternoon sunlight is projected onto the wall. Shadows of birds flit across it.
Some shadows are sharp, some shadows are blurry.
I've seen them before in another time and place.
Outline of your frame
My paper witness your silhouette
Sipping in coffee
My muse, my Juliet.
Afternoon spent,
In hungry desires
Ending with a kiss
On your coffee lips.
Shadows are little pieces of night that follow us around in the day.
Reveal art; conceal the artist.
Framed in black moldings on the wall, other works of arts, conceived and committed on the premises, by the young ladies; being grim black-and-white crayons; landscapes, mostly: lake, solitary sail-boat, petrified clouds, pre-geological trees on shore, anthracite precipice;
Our clients' faces, with the customary outward paleness and inner glow of the book lover.
Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!
A new tracker?" Boyd asked, blinking.
"An anklet," Carhart replied. "It will be more discreet."
Boyd stared at him. "More discreet? On a man?"
"Are you planning to wear a dress and high heels?" Carhart replied with an arched eyebrow.
In silence and movement you can show the reflection of people.
I wanted to analyze how unnecessary it is to collapse a heroine into one specific mold, to give them all the same sparkly fashion, the same tiny figures, and the same homogenized plastic smile,
I don't want to just see someone's face; I want to know his shadow, too.
- Jude
What is either a picture or a novel that is not character?
Several were sheer and white.
As phantoms frighten beasts when shadows fall.
Anonymous young men with all-American bone structures.
A hunter of shadows, himself a shade.
I have a feeling only for shadows
A pastiche of eyes. But faces all gray. Not the color of metal, but the color of old ash in a campfire. Ash faces. Ash clothes. Ash lives.
The human features and countenance, although composed of but some ten parts or little more, are so fashioned that among so many thousands of men there are no two in existence who cannot be distinguished from one another.
Nothing is as invisible as the obvious.
Invisible beauty exists only in the blind eye.
Snowlight, moonlight, a confusion of paw-prints.
None escape their shadows
The shadows are as important as the light.
You cant see me im invisible
They get a glimpse of red lips under a short veil, and exquisite little feet.