Art Is Either A Plagiarist Or A

Thanks To Our Cinctures And Corsets We Have Succeeded In Making An Artificial Being Out Of Woman. She Is An Anomaly, And Nature Herself, Obedient To The Laws Of Heredity, Aids Us In Complicating And Enervating Her. We Carefully Keep Her In A State Of Nervous Weakness And Muscular Inferiority, And In Guarding Her From Fatigue, We Take Away From Her Possibilities Of Development. Thus Modeled On A Bizarre Ideal Of Slenderness To Which, Strangely Enough, We Continue To Adhere, Our Women Have Nothing In Common With Us, And This, Perhaps, May Not Be Without Grave Moral And Social Disadvantages.

Many People Say That I Don't Know How To Draw Because I Don't Draw Particular Forms. When Will They Understand That Execution, Drawing And Color (in Other Words, Style) Must Be In Harmony With The Poem?

How To Re-light The Fire The Very Ashes Of Which Are Scattered?

It Is Useless To Advise Solitude For Everyone; One Must Be Strong Enough To Endure It And To Work Alone.

I Am Leaving In Order To Have Peace And Quiet. To Be Rid Of The Influence Of Civilization. I Only Want To Do Simple, Very Simple Art And To Be Able To Do That, I Have To Immerse Myself In Virgin Nature, See No One But Savages, Live Their Life, With No Other Thought In My Mind But To Render, The Way A Child Would, The Concepts Formed In My Brain And To Do This With The Aid Of Nothing But The Primitive Means Of Art, The Only Means That Are Good And True.