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And fame, for a painter means sales, gains, fortune, riches. And today, as you know, I am celebrated. I am rich.
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In the end there is only Matisse.
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I don't know where he Marc Chagall gets those images; he must have an angel in his head.
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For a long time I limited myself to one colour - as a form of discipline.
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All children paint like geniuses. What do we do to them that so quickly dulls this ability?
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...art is something subversive. It's something that should not be free. Art and liberty, like the fire of Prometheus, are things that one must steal, to be used against the established order.
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When German soldiers used to come to my studio and look at my pictures of Guernica, they'd ask 'Did you do this?'. And I'd say, 'No, you did.'
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Why do two colors, put one next to the other, sing?
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A painting only lives in the eye of the beholder.
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When you start with a portrait and search for a pure form, a clear volume, through successive eliminations, you arrive inevitably at the egg. Likewise, starting with the egg and following the same process in reverse, one finishes with the portrait.
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When it comes right down to it, all you have is your self. Your Self is a sun with a thousand rays.
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Art is not chaste. Those ill prepared should be allowed no contact with art. Art is dangerous. If it is chaste, it is not art.
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Art sweeps the everyday dust from your soul.
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Now there is fame! Of all - hunger, misery, the incomprehension by the public - fame is by far the worst. It is the castigation of God by the artist. It is sad. It is true.
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I do not see why so much importance should be attached to the idea of 'research' in painting.
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The quality of a painter depends on the amount of past he carries with him.
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When art critics get together they talk about Form and Structure and Meaning. When artists get together they talk about where you can buy cheap turpentine.
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It is my misfortune - and probably my delight - to use things as my passions tell me. What a miserable fate for a painter who adores blondes to have to stop himself putting them into a picture because they don't go with the basket of fruit! . . . I put all the things I like into my pictures. The things - so much the worse for them. They just have to put up with it.
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When Matisse died, he left me his Odalisques 'as a legacy', he proclaimed.
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Picasso was telling Madame C- that he could paint anywhere and anyhow. That nothing in the world could stop him. That even if he were imprisoned, he would draw on the dust-covered prison walls and on the floor, with his fingers dripped in his own spit. He said he could paint then and there if he wanted to, or if he felt like it.
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I have never made radically different experiments. Whenever I wanted to say something, I said it the way I believed I should.
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Critics, mathematicians, scientists and busybodies want to classify everything, marking the boundaries and limits... In art, there is room for all possibilities.
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I would like to manage to prevent people from ever seeing how a picture of mine has been done. What can it possibly matter? What I want is that the only thing emanating from my pictures should be emotion. Boisgeloup, winter 1934.
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Matisse makes a drawing, then he makes a copy of it. He recopies it five times, ten times, always clarifying the line. He's convinced that the last, the most stripped down, is the best, the purest, the definitive one; and in fact, most of the time, it was the first. In drawing, nothing is better than the first attempt.