The painting of tomorrow will use the photographic eye as it has used the human eye.
Photography intervenes in a very strange way. It makes the streets, gates, squares of the city into illustrations of a trashy novel, draws off the banal obviousness of this ancient architecture to inject it with the most pristine intensity.
Fear of error which everything recalls to me at every moment of the flight of my ideas, this mania for control, makes men prefer reason's imagination to the imagination of the senses. And yet it is always the imagination alone which is at work.
We know that the nature of genius is to provide idiots with ideas twenty years later.
There are strange flowers of reason to match each error of the senses.
Your imagination, my dear fellow, is worth more than you imagine.
I have no friends, there are only people I love.
Yes, I read. I have that absurd habit. I like beautiful poems, moving poetry, and all the beyond of that poetry. I am extraordinarily sensitive to those poor, marvelous words left in our dark night by a few men I never knew.
Light is meaningful only in relation to darkness, and truth presupposes error. It is these mingled opposites which people our life, which make it pungent, intoxicating. We only exist in terms of this conflict, in the zone where black and white clash.
Love is made by two people, in different kinds of solitude. It can be in a crowd, but in an oblivious crowd.
Last Update: 13 April 2021
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