It Was So Simple To Paint Things

I'd Like To Write The Way I Do My Paintings, That Is, As Fantasy Takes Me, As The Moon Dictates.

Slyly, Banteringly, But Also Overbearingly, The Critic - The One Who Does Not Swallow Anything Whole, Who Waits Until Posterity Has Consecrated It Before... Howling - Is Among Those Who Howl Their Admiration The Way They Howl Their Insults: Don't Be Afraid, Don't Tremble - The Beast Doesn't Have Any Nails Or Teeth, Or Even Brain: It Is Stuffed.

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.

How Do You See Those Tree?... They Are Yellow. Well Then Put Down Yellow. And That Shadow Is Rather Blue. So Render It With Pure Ultramarine. Those Red Leaves? Use Vermillion.

It Is Better To Paint From Memory, For Thus Your Work Will Be Your Own.