Art Is Vice. One Does

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.

There Is No Such Thing As Intelligence; One Has Intelligence Of This Or That. One Must Have Intelligence Only For What One Is Doing.

A Man Is An Artist Only At Certain Moments, By An Effort Of Will. Objects Have The Same Appearance For Everybody.

Hitherto The Nude Has Always Been Represented In Poses Which Presuppose An Audience. But My Women Are Simple, Honest Creatures Who Are Concerned With Nothing Beyond Their Physical Occupations... It Is As If You Were Looking Through A Keyhole.

I Have Been, Or Seemed, Hard With Everyone Because I Was Carried Away By A Sort Of Brutality Born Of My Distrust In Myself And My Ill-humor. I Have Felt So Badly Equipped, So Soft, In Spite Of The Fact That My Attitude Towards Art Seemed To Me So Just. I Was Disgusted With Everyone, And Especially Myself.