In New York In 1915 I Bought

I Have Forced Myself To Contradict Myself In Order To Avoid Conforming To My Own Taste.

To All Appearances The Artist Acts Like A Mediumistic Being Who, From The Labyrinth Beyond Time And Space, Seeks His Way Out To A Clearing. If We Give The Attributes Of A Medium To The Artist, We Must Then Deny Him The State Of Consciousness On The Aesthetic Plane About What He Is Doing Or Why He Is Doing It. All This Decisions In The Artistic Execution Of The Work Rest With Pure Intuition And Cannot Be Translated Into A Self-analysis, Spoken Or Written, Or Even Thought Out.

In The Last Analysis, The Artist May Shout From All The Rooftops That He Is A Genius; He Will Have To Wait For The Verdict Of Posterity.

I Consider Painting As A Means Of Expression, Not As A Goal.

I Don’t Care About The Word ‘art’ Because It Has Been So Discredited. So I Want To Get Rid Of It. There Is An Unnecessary Adoration Of ‘art’ Today.