The Louvre Is The Book In Which

If I Were Called Upon To Define Briefly The Word Art, I Should Call It The Reproduction Of What The Senses Preceive In Nature, Seen Through The Veil Of The Soul.

Drawing And Color Are Not Separate At All; In So Far As You Paint, You Draw. The More Color Harmonizes, The More Exact The Drawing Becomes. When The Color Achieves Richness, The Form Attains Its Fullness Also

The Awareness Of Our Own Strength Makes Us Modest.

Surely, A Single Bunch Of Carrots Painted Naively, Just As We Personally See It, Is Worth All The Endless Banalities Of The Schools, All Those Dreary Pictures Concocted Out Of Tobacco Juice According To Time-honored Formulas?

I Wished To Copy Nature. I Could Not. But I Was Satisfied When I Discovered The Sun, For Instance, Could Not Be Reproduced, But Only Represented By Something Else.