I imitate everyone except myself.

I begin with an idea and then it becomes something else.

A painter paints to unload himself of feelings and visions.

What I capture in spite of myself interests me more than my own ideas.

Art is not chaste. Those ill prepared should be allowed no contact with art. Art is dangerous. If it is chaste, it is not art.

But when I am alone, I do not have the effrontery to consider myself an artist at all, not in the grand old meaning of the word: Giotto, Titian, Rembrandt, Goya were great painters. I am only a public clown-a mountebank. I have understood my time and have exploited the imbecility, the vanity, the greed of my contemporaries. It is a bitter confession, this confession of mine, more painful than it may seem. But at least and at last it does have the merit of being honest.

Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?