The Truly Original Artist Invents His Own

There's Nothing Clinically Wrong With Me, Only An Emotional Imbalance - I Pass Too Quickly From The Wildest Enthusiasm To The Blackest Despair.

The Things That Are Acquired Consciously Permit Us To Express Ourselves Unconsciously With A Certain Richness.

I Have Always Sought To Be Understood And, While I Was Taken To Task By Critics Or Colleagues, I Thought They Were Right, Assuming I Had Not Been Clear Enough To Be Understood. This Assumption Allowed Me To Work My Whole Life Without Hatred And Even Without Bitterness Toward Criticism, Regardless Of Its Source. I Counted Solely On The Clarity Of Expression Of My Work To Gain My Ends. Hatred, Rancor, And The Spirit Of Vengeance Are Useless Baggage To The Artist. His Road Is Difficult Enough For Him To Cleanse His Soul Of Everything Which Could Make It More So.

The Splitting Up Of Color [as Impressionists Did] Brought The Splitting Up Of Form And Contour . . . Everything Is Reduced To A Mere Sensation Of The Retina, But One Which Destroys All Tranquility Of Surface And Contour. Objects Are Differentiated Only By The Luminosity That Is Given Them.

You Study, You Learn, But You Guard The Original Naivete. It Has To Be Within You, As Desire For Drink Is Within The Drunkard Or Love Is Within The Lover.