For My Part, I Can't Do Anything

In Every Photographer There Was A Painter, A True Artist, Awaiting Expression.

The Earth Doesn't Have A Housekeeper To Do The Dusting. And The Dust That Falls On It Every Day Remains There. Everything That's Come Down To Us From The Past Has Been Conserved By Dust.

Only When Painting Isn't Painting Can There Be An Affront To Modesty.

It Is My Misfortune - And Probably My Delight - To Use Things As My Passions Tell Me. What A Miserable Fate For A Painter Who Adores Blondes To Have To Stop Himself Putting Them Into A Picture Because They Don't Go With The Basket Of Fruit! . . . I Put All The Things I Like Into My Pictures. The Things - So Much The Worse For Them. They Just Have To Put Up With It.

When There's Dust Missing Here Or There, It's Because Someone Has Touched My Things. I See Immediately Someone Has Been There. And It's Because I Live Constantly With Dust, In Dust, That I Prefer To Wear Gray Suits, The Only Color On Which It Leaves No Trace.