One Cannot Be A Sorcerer All The

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.

In The End There Is Only Matisse.

He Was An Afghan Hound Name Kabul. Since Him I Have Had Other Afghan Hounds.... Perhaps I Am Looking For His Ghost. He Is The Only One That I Sometimes Think About. Often, If He Comes In To My Mind When I Am Working, It Alters What I Do. The Nose On The Face I Am Drawing Gets Longer And Sharper. The Hair Of The Woman I Am Sketching Gets Longer And Fluffy, Resting Against Her Cheeks Like His Ears Rested Against His Head.

Academic Training In Beauty Is A Sham. We Have Been So Deceived, But So Well Deceived That We Can Scarcely Get Back Even A Shadow Of The Truth.

Whatever The Source Of Emotion That Drives Me To Create, I Want To Give It A Form Which Has Some Connection With The Visible World, Even If It Is Only To Wage War On That World....i Want My Paintings To Be Able To Defend Themselves To Resist The Invader, Just As Though There Were Razor Blades On All Surfaces So No One Could Touch Them Without Cutting His Hands.