When I Paint I Feel That All

One Cannot Be A Sorcerer All The Time. How Could One Live?

I Hate That Aesthetic Game Of The Eye And The Mind, Played By These Connoisseurs, These Mandarins Who "appreciate" Beauty. What Is Beauty, Anyway? There's No Such Thing. I Never "appreciate," Any More Than I "like." I Love It Or I Hate.

What Do You Think An Artist Is? An Imbecile Who Has Only His Eyes If He's A Painter, Or Ears If He's A Musician, Or A Lyre At Every Level Of His Heart If He's A Poet, Or Even, If He's A Boxer, Just His Muscles? On The Contrary, He's At The Same Time A Political Being, Constantly Alive To Heart-rending, Burning, Or Happy Events In The World.

The Connoisseur Of Painting Gives Only Bad Advice To The Painter. For That Reason I Have Given Up Trying To Judge Myself.

I Want To Know One Thing, What Is Color?