I Paint The Way Some People Write

But When I Am Alone, I Do Not Have The Effrontery To Consider Myself An Artist At All, Not In The Grand Old Meaning Of The Word: Giotto, Titian, Rembrandt, Goya Were Great Painters. I Am Only A Public Clown-a Mountebank. I Have Understood My Time And Have Exploited The Imbecility, The Vanity, The Greed Of My Contemporaries. It Is A Bitter Confession, This Confession Of Mine, More Painful Than It May Seem. But At Least And At Last It Does Have The Merit Of Being Honest.

Art Is Lies That Tell The Truth.

What Is Conserved In The Ground? Stone, Bronze, Ivory, Bone, Sometimes Pottery. Never Wood Objects, No Fabric Or Skins. That Completely Skews Our Notions About Primitive Man.

Cubism Is Not A Reality You Can Take In Your Hand. It's More Like A Perfume, In Front Of You, Behind You, To The Sides, The Scent Is Everywhere But You Don’t Quite Know Where It Comes From.

You Can't Escape Your Own Period. Whether You Take Sides For Or Against, You're Always In It.