One does not marry art. One ravishes it.
People call me the painter of dancers, but I really wish to capture movement itself.
Art is vice. You don't marry it legitimately, you rape it.
The Dance instills in you something that sets you apart. Something heroic and remote.
And even this heart of mine has something artificial. The dancers have sewn it into a bag of pink satin, pink satin slightly faded, like their dancing shoes.
In painting you must give the idea of the true by means of the false.