Are We To Paint What's On The

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.

Success Is Dangerous. One Begins To Copy Oneself, And To Copy Oneself Is More Dangerous Than To Copy Others. It Leads To Sterility.

Whatever The Source Of Emotion That Drives Me To Create, I Want To Give It A Form Which Has Some Connection With The Visible World, Even If It Is Only To Wage War On That World....i Want My Paintings To Be Able To Defend Themselves To Resist The Invader, Just As Though There Were Razor Blades On All Surfaces So No One Could Touch Them Without Cutting His Hands.

Academic Training In Beauty Is A Sham. We Have Been So Deceived, But So Well Deceived That We Can Scarcely Get Back Even A Shadow Of The Truth.

When One Starts From A Portrait And Seeks By Successive Eliminations To Find Pure Form... One Inevitably Ends Up With An Egg.