Perhaps I Know To What

When A Work Appears To Be Ahead Of Its Time, It Is Only The Time That Is Behind The Work.

My Little Renoirs. Matisse Describes Having Seen Renoir Make These Tiny Canvases. When He Had Finished Working, He Would Use Up The Color Left In His Brushes On Them.

Artists Can No More Speak About Their Work, Than Plants Can Speak About Horticulture.

Every Poem Is A Coat Of Arms. It Must Be Deciphered. How Much Blood, How Many Tears In Exchange For These Axes, These Muzzles, These Unicorns, These Torches, These Towers, These Martlets, These Seedlings Of Stars And These Fields Of Blue!

The Artist Is A Kind Of Prison From Which The Works Of Art Escape.