Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives.
The painter is not an intellectual if, when he has painted a nude woman, he gives us the idea that she is just about to put her clothes back on.
While I recognize the necessity for a basis of observed reality. . . true art lies in a reality that is felt.
True art lies in a reality that is felt.
I have often, as an exercise and as a sustenance, painted before an object down to the smallest accidents of its visual appearance; but the day left me sad and with an unsatiated thirst. The next day I let the other source run, that of imagination, through the recollection of the forms and I was then reassured and appeased.
I await joyous surprises while working, an awakening of the materials that I work with and that my spirit develops.
It is precisely from the regret left by the imperfect work that the next one can be born.
As for myself, there are two things I dread, - death and marriage. I must die, but I need not marry. I have sworn I will never be taken alive.
It happened again this week. Hundreds of people had to be evacuated from O'Hare Airport in Chicago. Seems every time somebody went through with a weapon, the metal detectors accidentally went off.
I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live.
The bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding go out to meet it.