What A Horrible Thing Yellow Is.

One Reproduces Only That Which Is Striking; That Is To Say, The Necessary. Thus, One's Recollections And Inventions Are Liberated From The Tyranny Which Nature Exerts.

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

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.

Even In Front Of Nature One Must Compose.

The Artist Does Not Draw What He Sees, But What He Must Make Others See. Only When He No Longer Knows What He Is Doing Does The Painter Do Good Things. A Picture Is First Of All A Product Of The Imagination Of The Artist; It Must Never Be A Copy. If Then Two Or Three Natural Accents Can Be Added, Obviously No Harm Is Done. The Air We See In The Paintings Of The Old Masters Is Never The Air We Breathe.