English Romantic landscape painter, watercolourist and printmaker,
was born in Maiden Lane, Covent Garden, London,
April 23, 1775.
Known for his expressive colourisations, imaginative landscapes and turbulent seascapes, Turner devoted his entire life to his art and was fortunate to be successful throughout his career.
He left behind more than 550 oil paintings, 2,000 watercolours, and 30,000 works on paper. Most are in the National Gallery and the Tate Gallery, London.
With such a huge legacy, it’s quite a task trying to ‘pick’, however, here’s a …taste!
“…indistinctness is my forte…”
“My business is to paint what I see, not what I know is there.”
“If I could find anything blacker than black I’d use it.”
“To select, combine and concentrate that which is beautiful in nature and admirable in art is as much the business of the landscape painter in his line as in the other departments of art.”
“I don’t paint so that people will understand me, I paint to show what a particular scene looks like.”
“Painting is a strange business.”
J.M.W. Turner’s Poem dedicated to Ivan Aivazovsky 
Like a curtain slowly drawn
It stops suddenly half open,
Or, like grief itself, filled with gentle hope,
It becomes lighter in the shore-less dark,
Thus the moon barely wanes
Winding her way above the storm-tossed sea.
Stand upon this hill and behold endlessly
This scene of a formidable sea,
And it will seem to thee a waking dream.
That secret mind flowing in thee
Which even the day cannot scatter,
The serenity of thinking and the beating of the heart
Will enchain thee in this vision;
This golden-silver moon
Standing lonely over the sea,
All curtain the grief of even the hopeless.
And it appears that through the tempest
Moves a light caressing wind,
While the sea swells up with a roar,
Sometimes, like a battlefield it looks to me
The tempestuous sea,
Where the moon itself is a brilliant golden crown
Of a great king.
But even that moon is always beneath thee
Oh Master most high,
Oh forgive thou me
If even this master was frightened for a moment
Oh, noble moment, by art betrayed…
And how may one not delight in thee,
Oh thou young boy, but forgive thou me,
If I shall bend my white head
Before thy art divine
Thy bliss-wrought genius…