Eugene Delacroix Quotes
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What is real for me are the illusions I create with my paintings. Everything else is quicksand.
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Cold exactitude is not art; ingenious artifice, when it pleases or when it expresses, is art itself.
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It is only possible to speak in the language and in the spirit of one's time.
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The contour should come last, only a very experienced eye can place it rightly.
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In abandoning the vagueness of the sketch the artist shows more of his personality by revealing the range but also the limitations of his talent.
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The secret of not having worries, for me at least, is to have ideas.
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One always has to spoil a picture a little bit, in order to finish it.
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As for the ridiculous fear of making things below one's potential abilities... No, there is the root of the evil. There is the hiding place of stupidity I must attack: vain mortal, you are limited by nothing.
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One must learn to be grateful for one's own findings.
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Perhaps the sketch of a work is so pleasing because everyone can finish it as he chooses.
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Painters who are not colorists produce illumination, not painting.
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Commonplace people have an answer for everything and nothing ever surprises them. They try to look as though they knew what you were about to say better than you did yourself, and when it is their turn to speak, they repeat with great assurance something that they have heard other people say, as though it were their own invention.
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What I have done cannot be taken from me.
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You increase your self-respect when you feel you've done everything you ought to have done, and if there is nothing else to enjoy, there remains that chief of pleasures, the feeling of being pleased with oneself. A man gets an immense amount of satisfaction from the knowledge of having done good work and of having made the best use of his day, and when I am in this state I find that I thoroughly enjoy my rest and even the mildest forms of recreation.
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Do not be troubled for a language, cultivate your soul and she will show herself.
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To be understood a writer has to explain almost everything.
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What makes sovereign ugliness are our conventions.
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Draughtsmen may be made, but colourists are born.
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How can this world, which is so beautiful, include so much horror?
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The so-called conscientiousness of the majority of painters is only perfection applied to the art of boring.