A Quote by Albert Camus
In Italian museums are sometimes found little painted screens that the priest used to hold in front of the face of condemned men to hide the scaffold from them.
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When mountains and waters are painted, blue, green, and red paints are used, strange rocks and wondrous stones are used, the four jewels and the seven treasures are used. Rice-cakes are painted in the same manner. When a person is painted, the four great elements and five skandhas are used.
Men propound mathematical theorems in besieged cities, conduct metaphysical arguments in condemned cells, make jokes on the scaffold, discuss a new poem while advancing to the walls of Quebec, and comb their hair at Thermopylae. This is not panache; it is our nature.
When a buddha is painted, not only a clay altar or lump of earth is used, but the thirty-two marks, a blade of grass, and the cultivation of wisdom for incalculable eons are used. As a Buddha has been painted on a single scroll in this way, all buddhas are painted buddhas, and all painted buddhas are actual buddhas.
I've had a lifelong love affair with makeup. When I was a little girl, I used to take my mother's makeup and paint all of my dolls' faces, and I even painted the dog's face!
Even men used to hide their marriages because they used to feel people will not like them anymore. It's the industry which has the false notion that an actor or an actress, if married, is not desirable to the audience.
I'm really bad at doing my hair, so the front always looks a little bit off. I think that the front is the most important in terms of the whole look. So, because the front layers just get awkward sometimes, I feel like I have to clip them back.
Do you think my husband and his soldiers will be overly upset with me?" The priest broke into a wide grin. "I'll stand by your side when we find out," he said. "I would be honored to escort you to your husband." The priest took hold of Johanna's arm. She didn't notice. "I expect them to be a little upset at first," she explained. "But only just a little." "Yes," he agreed. "Tell me, lass. When was your last confession?" "Why do you ask?" "It's preferred to receive absolution before you meet your Maker.
I guess now that I think back, I used to play priest and be a funny priest. I don't know, I grew up in such a Catholic family that I kind of liked to test the boundaries a little bit and I think I had fun watching my mom laugh.
What is a face, really? Its own photo? Its make-up? Or is it a face as painted by such or such painter? That which is in front? Inside? Behind? And the rest? Doesn't everyone look at himself in his own particular way? Deformations simply do not exist.
Peter Hinwood found all these old pictures - Polaroids - and when I saw them, I just didn't believe that the person in them was connected with me. I was in a hotel room with one of those front-and-back mirrors, and I thought, Who the hell is that? I used to be thin as a rake. I used to have the nice-shaped pecs. It's sad. No, it's not sad, it's the reality, and I've accepted this now.
I think that's what we need more of: Asian-Americans on movie screens and TV screens where they're normalized. Where it's not about them being Asian or a person of color. It's just about them being a human. I think that's why sometimes when I see movies with an Asian family, but it's very stereotyped, I don't find that relatable.
I used to always hide my hand, I still do. I don't really like talking about it. Sometimes I still hide it and not even realize that I'm doing it.
O joy of suffering! To struggle against great odds! to meet enemies undaunted! To be entirely alone with them! to find how much one can stand! To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, death, face to face! To mount the scaffold! to advance to the muzzles of guns with perfect nonchalance! To be indeed a God!
They courted the face on the screen, the face of translucence, the face of wax on which men found it possible to imprint the image of their fantasy.
He leaned up a little and watched her face. Her face would now be, forever, more mysterious and impenetrable than the face of any stranger. Strangers' faces hold no secrets because the imagination does not invest them with any. But the face of a lover is an unknown precisely because it is invested with so much of oneself. It is a mystery, containing, like all mysteries, the possibility of torment.
A face painted in a picture gives a pitiful parody of life. . . but a painted surface lives.
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