Beauty, Like Truth, Is Relative To The

Without Trying To Clear Up The Degree Of Correctness Of A Qualification Which No One, One Must Hope, Will Be Asked To Understand Exactly, I Will Limit Myself To A Few Words Of Explanation To Cut Short Any Misunderstandings.

On The Left Is The Realist Tradition Of The 19th Century, With Its Impulse To Social Description, Radical Criticism And Meditation On Things As They Are... Culminating In Courbet At His Mightiest (the Studio, The Funeral At Ornans And A Portrait Of A Trout That Has More Death In It Than Rubens Could Get In A Whole Crucifixion).

Art Or Talent, For An Artist, Is Merely A Means Of Applying His Personal Faculties To The Ideas And The Things Of The Period In Which He Lives.

I Have Never Seen An Angel. Show Me An Angel, And I'll Paint One.

Beauty Lies In Nature And Reveals, Once The Artist Has Perceived It, Its Own Expressive Power.