There Is A Kind Of Success That

Even In Front Of Nature One Must Compose.

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

Art Is Vice. You Don't Marry It Legitimately, You Rape It.

It Seems To Me That Today, If The Artist Wishes To Be Serious - To Cut Out A Little Original Niche For Himself, Or At Least Preserve His Own Innocence Of Personality - He Must Once More Sink Himself In Solitude. There Is Too Much Talk And Gossip; Pictures Are Apparently Made, Like Stock-market Prices, By Competition Of People Eager For Profit; In Order To Do Anything At All We Need (so To Speak) The Wit And Ideas Of Our Neighbors As Much As The Businessmen Need The Funds Of Others To Win On The Market. All This Traffic Sharpens Our Intelligence And Falsifies Our Judgment.

Art Critic! Is That A Profession? When I Think We Are Stupid Enough, We Painters, To Solicit Those People's Compliments And To Put Ourselves Into Their Hands! What Shame! Should We Even Accept That They Talk About Our Work?