“The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without work.”
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I am an artist. I am here to live out loud.
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There are two men inside the artist, the poet and the craftsman. One is born a poet. One becomes a craftsman.
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At that instant he saw, in one blaze of light, an image of unutterable conviction, the reason why the artist works and lives and has his being–the reward he seeks–the only reward he really cares about, without which there is nothing. It is to snare the spirits of mankind in nets of magic, to make his life prevail through his creation, to wreak the vision of his life, the rude and painful substance of his own experience, into the congruence of blazing and enchanted images that are themselves the core of life, the essential pattern whence all other things proceed, the kernel of eternity.
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It is sometimes said that the tragedy of an artist’s life is that he cannot realise his ideal. But the true tragedy that dogs the steps of most artists is that they realise their ideal too absolutely. For, when the ideal is realised, it is robbed of its wonder and its mystery, and becomes simply a new starting-point for an ideal that is other than itself.
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Do not quench your inspiration and your imagination; do not become the slave of your model.
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“The artist should be a seeing-eye dog for a myopic civilization.”
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In the fabric of space and in the nature of matter, as in a great work of art, there is, written small, the artist’s signature.
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To the artist there is never anything ugly in nature.
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The artist is a receptacle for the emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider’s web.
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When I was a child, my mother said to me, ‘If you become a soldier, you will become a general. If you become a monk, then you will end up as Pope.’ Instead, I became a painter, and wound up as Picasso.
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Singing has always seemed to me the most perfect means of expression. It is so spontaneous. And after singing, I think the violin. Since I cannot sing, I paint.
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“The artist belongs to his work, not the work to the artist.”
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This comes from dangling from the ceiling–
I’m goitered like a Lombard cat
(or wherever else their throats grow fat)–
it’s my belly that’s beyond concealing,
it hands beneath my chin like peeling.
My beard points skyward, I seem a bat
upon its back, I’ve breasts and splat!
On my face the paint’s congealing.
Loins concertina’d in my gut,
I drop an arse as counterweight
and move without the help of eyes.
Like a skinned martyr I abut
on air, and, wrinkled, show my fat.
Bow-like, I strain toward the skies.
No wonder then I size
things crookedly; I’m on all fours.
Bent blowpipes send their darts off-course.
Defend my labor’s cause,
good Giovanni, from all strictures:
I live in hell and paint its pictures.
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The best artist has that thought alone
Which is contained within the marble shell;
The sculptor’s hand can only break the spell
To free the figures slumbering in the stone
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“The feat of superbly imitating a muscle, as Michelangelo did, or a face, as Raphael did, created neither progress nor a hierarchy in art. Because these artists of the sixteenth century imitated human forms, they were not superior to the artists of the high periods of Egyptian, Chaldean, Indochinese, Roman, and Gothic art who interpreted and stylized form but did not imitate it.”
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An artist has to go to every extreme, to stretch his sensibility through excess and suffering in order to feel and to communicate more. I have always been fascinated by blood. Pain can be vitalizing; it gives intensity in the place of vagueness and emptiness. If we don’t suffer, how do we know that we live?
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The monopoly capitalists - even while employing purely empirical methods - weave around art a complicated web which converts it into a willing tool. The superstructure of society ordains the type of art in which the artist has to be educated. Rebels are subdued by its machinery and only rare talents may create their own work. The rest become shameless hacks or are crushed.
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“In the artist’s recreation of the world we are enabled to see the world.”
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In my prints I try to show that we live in a beautiful and orderly world and not in a chaos without norms, as we sometimes seem to. My subjects are also often playful. I cannot help mocking all our unwavering certainties. It is, for example, great fun deliberately to confuse two and three dimensions, the plane and space, or to poke fun at gravity. Are you sure that a floor cannot also be a ceiling? Are you absolutely certain that you go up when you walk up a staircase? Can you be definite that it is impossible to eat your cake and have it?
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Genial manners are good, and power of accommodation to any circumstance, but the high prize of life, the crowning fortune of a man is to be born with a bias to some pursuit, which finds him in employment and happiness, — whether it be to make baskets, or broadswords, or canals, or statutes, or songs. I doubt not this was the meaning of Socrates, when he pronounced artists the only truly wise, as being actually, not apparently so.
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“The defining function of the artist is to cherish consciousness.”
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The artist, a traveller on this earth, leaves behind imperishable traces of his being.
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Taste! It doesn’t exist. An artist makes beautiful things without being aware of it.
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“An artist cannot fail; it is a success to be one.”
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The role of the artist I now understood as that of revealing through the world-surfaces the implicit forms of the soul, and the great agent to assist the artist was the myth.
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