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.

Only when he no longer knows what he is doing does the painter do good things.

It requires courage to make a frontal attack on nature through the broad planes and the large lines and it is cowardly to do it by the facets and details. It is a battle.

Art critic! Is that a profession? When I think we are stupid enough, we painters, to solicit those people's compliments and to put ourselves into their hands! What shame! Should we even accept that they talk about our work?

Art is vice. You don't marry it legitimately, you rape it.

There is a kind of success that is indistinguishable from panic.

Be sure to give the same expression to a person's face that you give to his body.