Make People's Portraits In Familiar And Typical

People Call Me The Painter Of Dancers, But I Really Wish To Capture Movement Itself.

A Picture Is An Artificial Work, Outside Nature. It Calls For As Much Cunning As The Commission Of A Crime.

The Air We See In The Paintings Of The Old Masters Is Never The Air We Breathe.

Only Two Of My Personalities Are Schizophrenic, But One Of Them Is Paranoid And The Other One Is Out To Get Him. Only When He No Longer Knows What He Is Doing Does The Painter Do Good Things.

And Even This Heart Of Mine Has Something Artificial. The Dancers Have Sewn It Into A Bag Of Pink Satin, Pink Satin Slightly Faded, Like Their Dancing Shoes.