What I want is that my picture should evoke nothing but emotion.

The academic teaching on beauty is false. We have been misled, but so completely misled that we can no longer find so much as a shadow of a truth again. The beauties of the Parthenon, the Venuses, the Nymphs, the Narcisusses, are so may lies. Art is not the application of a canon of beauty, but what the instinct and the brain can conceive independently of that canon.

Whether he wants it or not, man is the instrument of nature; she imposes on him character and appearance.

The artist spends the first part of his life with the dead, the second with the living, and the third with himself.

The people who make art their business are mostly imposters.

What other movement determines the S line? Its aesthetic efficacity has long been noted by artists.

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.