The Frame Is The Reward

People Call Me The Painter Of Dancing Girls. It Has Never Occurred To Them That My Chief Interest In Dancers Lies In Rendering Movement And Painting Pretty Clothes.

I Have Been, Or Seemed, Hard With Everyone Because I Was Carried Away By A Sort Of Brutality Born Of My Distrust In Myself And My Ill-humor. I Have Felt So Badly Equipped, So Soft, In Spite Of The Fact That My Attitude Towards Art Seemed To Me So Just. I Was Disgusted With Everyone, And Especially Myself.

Only Two Of My Personalities Are Schizophrenic, But One Of Them Is Paranoid And The Other One Is Out To Get Him. Only When He No Longer Knows What He Is Doing Does The Painter Do Good Things.

What Use Is My Mind? Granted That It Enables Me To Hail A Bus And To Pay My Fare. But Once I Am Inside My Studio, What Use Is My Mind? I Have My Model, My Pencil, My Paints. My Mind Doesn't Interest Me.

I Would Like To Be Famous But Unknown.