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

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?

There is no such thing as Intelligence; one has intelligence of this or that. One must have intelligence only for what one is doing.

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.

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

If I could have had my own way, I would have confined myself to black and white.

Realism is more important than the sentiment of the picture.