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Take Hold Of Objects By Their Centres, Not By Their Lines Of Contour... The Contour Accentuated Uniformly And Beyond Proportion, Destroys Plasticity, Bringing Forward Those Parts Of An Object Which Are Always Most Distant From The Eye - Namely Its Outlines.

-Eugene Delacroix

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Take Hold Of Objects

Eugene Delacroix

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Take Hold Of Objects By Their Centres, Not By Their Lines Of Contour... The Contour Accentuated Uniformly And Beyond Proportion, Destroys Plasticity, Bringing Forward Those Parts Of An Object Which Are Always Most Distant From The Eye - Namely Its Outlines.

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You Increase Your Self-respect When You Feel You've Done Everything You Ought To Have Done, And If There Is Nothing Else To Enjoy, There Remains That Chief Of Pleasures, The Feeling Of Being Pleased With Oneself. A Man Gets An Immense Amount Of Satisfaction From The Knowledge Of Having Done Good Work And Of Having Made The Best Use Of His Day, And When I Am In This State I Find That I Thoroughly Enjoy My Rest And Even The Mildest Forms Of Recreation.

What Moves Those Of Genius, What Inspires Their Work Is Not New Ideas, But Their Obsession With The Idea That What Has Already Been Said Is Still Not Enough.

I Live In Company With A Body, A Silent Companion, Exacting And Eternal. He It Is Who Notes That Individuality Which Is The Seal Of The Weakness Of Our Race. My Soul Has Wings, But The Brutal Jailer Is Strict.

The Only Ones Who Can Really Benefit By Consulting The Model Are Those Who Can Produce Their Effect Without A Model.

Everything Is A Subject; The Subject Is Yourself. It Is Within Yourself That You Must Look And Not Around You... The Greatest Happiness Is To Reveal It To Others, To Study Oneself, To Paint Oneself Continually In [one's] Work.

Nature Is A Dictionary; One Draws Words From It.

I Am Carrying Out My Plan, So Long Formulated, Of Keeping A Journal. What I Most Keenly Wish Is Not To Forget That I Am Writing For Myself Alone. Thus I Shall Always Tell The Truth, I Hope, And Thus I Shall Improve Myself. These Pages Will Reproach Me For My Changes Of Mind.

Experience Alone Can Give, Even To The Greatest Talent, That Confidence In Having Done All That Could Be Done.

Take Hold Of Objects By Their Centres, Not By Their Lines Of Contour... The Contour Accentuated Uniformly And Beyond Proportion, Destroys Plasticity, Bringing Forward Those Parts Of An Object Which Are Always Most Distant From The Eye - Namely Its Outlines.

One Never Paints Violently Enough.

If One Considered Life As A Simple Loan, One Would Perhaps Be Less Exacting. We Possess Actually Nothing; Everything Goes Through Us.

Delsarte Tells Me That Mozart Stole Outrageously From Galuppi, In The Same Way, I Suppose, That Molière Stole From Anybody Anywhere, If He Found Something Work Taking. I Said That What Was Mozart Had Not Been Stolen From Galuppi, Or From Anyone Else For That Matter.

If Painters Left Nothing Of Themselves After Their Deaths, So That We Were Obliged To Rank Them As We Do Actors According To The Judgment Of Their Contemporaries, How Different Their Reputations Would Be From What Posterity Has Made Them!

Even When We Look At Nature, Our Imagination Constructs The Picture.

I Have Told Myself A Hundred Times That Painting - That Is, The Material Thing Called A Painting - Is No More Than A Pretext, The Bridge Between The Mind Of The Painter And The Mind Of The Spectator.

Experience Has Two Things To Teach. The First Is That We Must Correct A Great Deal And The Second, That We Must Not Correct Too Much.

Cold Exactitude Is Not Art... The So-called Consciousness Of The Majority Of Painters Is Only Perfection Applied To The Art Of Boring. People Like That, If They Could, Would Work With The Same Minute Attention On The Back Of Their Canvas.

The Things One Experiences Alone With Oneself Are Very Much Stronger And Purer.

Mythological Subjects Always New. Modern Subjects Difficult Because Of The Absence Of The Nude And The Wretchedness Of Modern Costume.

Always, At The Back Of Your Soul, There Is Something That Says To You, 'mortal, Drawn From Eternal Life For A Short Time, Think How Precious These Moments Are.

I Go To Work As Others Rush To See Their Mistresses, And When I Leave, I Take Back With Me To My Solitude, Or In The Midst Of The Distractions That I Pursue, A Charming Memory That Does Not In The Least Resemble The Troubled Pleasure Of Lovers.

A Fine Suggestion, A Sketch With Great Feeling, Can Be As Expressive As The Most Finished Product.

Real Beauty In The Arts Is Eternal And Would Be Accepted At All Periods; But It Wears The Dress Of Its Century: Something Of That Dress Clings To It, And Woe To The Works Which Appear In Periods When The General Taste Is Corrupted.

If You Are Not Skillful Enough To Sketch A Man Jumping Out Of A Window In The Time It Takes Him To Fall From The Fourth Storey To The Ground, You Will Never Be Able To Produce Great Works.

All Painting Worth Its Name, Unless One Is Talking About Black And White, Must Include The Idea Of Color As One Of Its Necessary Supports, In The Same Way That It Includes Chiaroscuro, Proportion, And Perspective.

Black And White

How Can This World, Which Is So Beautiful, Include So Much Horror?

What Is Real For Me Are The Illusions I Create With My Paintings. Everything Else Is Quicksand.

A Picture Is Nothing But A Bridge Between The Soul Of The Artist And That Of The Spectator.

Not Only Can Color, Which Is Under Fixed Laws, Be Taught Like Music, But It Is Easier To Learn Than Drawing, Whose Elaborate Principles Cannot Be Taught.

Of Which Beauty Will You Speak? There Are Many: There Are A Thousand: There Is One For Every Look, For Every Spirit, Adapted To Each Taste, To Each Particular Constitution.

Can Any Man Say With Certainty That He Was Happy At A Particular Moment Of Time Which He Remembers As Being Delightful? Remembering It Certainly Makes Him Happy, Because He Realizes How Happy He Could Have Been, But At The Actual Moment When The Alleged Happiness Was Occurring, Did He Really Feel Happy? He Was Like A Man Owning A Piece Of Ground In Which, Unknown To Himself, A Treasure Lay Buried.

What Makes Sovereign Ugliness Are Our Conventions.

The First Virtue Of A Painting Is To Be A Feast For The Eyes.

Nourish Yourself With Grand And Austere Ideas Of Beauty That Feed The Soul Seek Solitude.

The Outcome Of My Days Is Always The Same; An Infinite Desire For What One Never Gets; A Void One Cannot Fill; An Utter Yearning To Produce In All Ways, To Battle As Much As Possible Against Time That Drags Us Along, And The Distractions That Throw A Veil Over Our Soul.

What I Have Done Cannot Be Taken From Me.

[photography Is] In Some Ways False Just Because It Is So Exact.

We Should Not Allow Ourselves To Believe That Writers Like Poe Have More Imagination Than Those Who Are Content With Describing Things As They Really Are. It Is Surely Easier To Invent Striking Situations In This Way Than To Tread The Beaten Track Which Intelligent Minds Have Followed Throughout The Centuries.

It Is Only Possible To Speak In The Language And In The Spirit Of One's Time.

Seeing Artistically Does Not Happen Automatically. We Must Constantly Develop Our Powers Of Observation.

The Living Model Never Answers Well The Idea Or Impressions The Painter Wishes To Express; One Must, Therefore, Learn To Do Without One, And For That, You Must Acquire Facility, Furnish One's Memory To The Point Of Infinitude, And Make Numerous Drawings After The Old Masters.

Draughtsmen May Be Made, But Colourists Are Born.

Let A Man Of Genius Make Use [of Photography] As It Should Be Used, And He Will Raise Himself To A Height That We Do Not Know.

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A Taste For Simplicity Cannot Last For Long.

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The Source Of Genius Is Imagination Alone.

Every Time I Await A Model, Even When I Am Most Pressed To Time, I Am Overjoyed When The Time Comes And I Tremble When I Hear The Key Turn In The Door.

The True Wisdom Of The Philosopher Ought To Insist In Enjoying Everything. Yet We Apply Ourselves To Dissecting And Destroying Everything That Is Good In Itself, That Has Virtue, Albeit The Virtue There Is In Mere Illusions. Nature Gives Us This Life Like A Toy To A Weak Child. We Want To See How It All Works; We Break Everything. There Remains In Our Hands, And Before Our Eyes, Stupid And Opened Too Late, The Sterile Wreckage, Fragments That Will Not Again Make A Whole. The Good Is So Simple.

The Source Of Genius Is Imagination Alone, The Refinement Of The Senses That Sees What Others Do Not See, Or Sees Them Differently.

Weaknesses In Men Of Genius Are Usually An Exaggeration Of Their Personal Feeling; In The Hands Of Feeble Imitators They Become The Most Flagrant Blunders. Entire Schools Have Been Founded On Misinterpretations Of Certain Aspects Of The Masters. Lamentable Mistakes Have Resulted From The Thoughtless Enthusiasm With Which Men Have Sought Inspiration From The Worst Qualities Of Remarkable Artists Because They Are Unable To Reproduce The Sublime Elements In Their Work.

Give Me Some Mud, And I Will Paint You A Woman's Flesh.

There Is No Merit In Being Truthful When One Is Truthful By Nature, Or Rather When One Can Be Nothing Else; It Is A Gift, Like Poetry Or Music. But It Needs Courage To Be Truthful After Carefully Considering The Matter, Unless A Kind Of Pride Is Involved; For Example, The Man Who Says To Himself, "i Am Ugly," And Then Says, "i Am Ugly" To His Friends, Lest They Should Think Themselves The First To Make The Discovery.

When A Thing Bores You, Do Not Do It.

Perfect Beauty Implies Perfect Simplicity, A Quality That At First Sight Does Not Arouse The Emotions Which We Feel Before Gigantic Works, Objects Whose Very Disproportion Constitutes An Element Of Beauty.

Cold Exactitude Is Not Art; Ingenious Artifice, When It Pleases Or When It Expresses, Is Art Itself.

The Contour Should Come Last, Only A Very Experienced Eye Can Place It Rightly.

Perhaps The Sketch Of A Work Is So Pleasing Because Everyone Can Finish It As He Chooses.

We Work Not Only To Produce, But To Give Value To Time.

Mediocre People Have An Answer For Everything And Are Astonished At Nothing. They Always Want To Have The Air Of Knowing Better Than You What You Are Going To Tell Them; When, In Their Turn, They Begin To Speak, They Repeat To You With The Greatest Confidence, As If Dealing With Their Own Property, The Things That They Have Heard You Say Yourself At Some Other Place. A Capable And Superior Look Is The Natural Accompaniment Of This Type Of Character.

If I Haven't Fought For My Country At Least I'll Paint For Her.

In Every Art We Are Always Obliged To Return To The Accepted Means Of Expression, The Conventional Language Of The Art. What Is A Black-and-white Drawing But A Convention To Which The Beholder Has Become So Accustomed That With His Mind's Eye He Sees A Complete Equivalent In The Translation From Nature?

Artists Who Seek Perfection In Everything Are Those Who Can't Attain It In Anything.

As For The Ridiculous Fear Of Making Things Below One's Potential Abilities... No, There Is The Root Of The Evil. There Is The Hiding Place Of Stupidity I Must Attack: Vain Mortal, You Are Limited By Nothing.

One Should Not Be Too Difficult. An Artist Should Not Treat Himself Like An Enemy.

The More An Object Is Polished Or Brilliant, The Less You See Its Own Color And The More It Becomes A Mirror Reflecting The Color Of Its Surroundings.

Remember The Enemy Of All Painting Is Gray: A Painting Will Almost Always Appear Grayer Than It Is, On Account Of Its Oblique Position Under The Light.

I Live In Company With A Body, A Silent Companion, Exacting And Eternal.

Finishing A Painting Demands A Heart Of Steel: Everything Requires A Decision, And I Find Difficulties Where I Least Expect Them... It Is At Such Moments That One Fully Realizes One's Own Weaknesses.

Painters Who Are Not Colorists Produce Illumination, Not Painting.

Curiously Enough, The Sublime Is Generally Achieved Through Want Of Proportion.

In Abandoning The Vagueness Of The Sketch The Artist Shows More Of His Personality By Revealing The Range But Also The Limitations Of His Talent.

There Is A Man Whose Qualities Can Be Savored By People Who Are Getting Old... The Painter Qualities Are Carried To The Highest Point In His Work: What He Does Is Done - Through And Through; When He Paints Eyes, They Are Lit With The Fire Of Life.

It Is Often We Come The Closest To The Essence Of An Artist... In His Or Her Pocket Notebooks And Travel Sketchbooks... Where Written Comments And Personal Notes Provide An Intimate Insight Into The Magical Mind Of A Working Artist.

Do All The Work You Can; That Is The Whole Philosophy Of The Good Way Of Life.

The So-called Conscientiousness Of The Majority Of Painters Is Only Perfection Applied To The Art Of Boring.

The Artist Is Always Concerned With A Total View Of The World. However, When The Photographer Takes A Picture ... The Edge Of His Picture Is Just As Interesting As The Middle, One Can Only Guess At The Existence Of A Whole, And The View Presented Seems Chosen By Chance.

At A Distance This Fine Oak Seems To Be Of Ordinary Size. But If I Place Myself Under Its Branches, The Impression Changes Completely: I See It As Big, And Even Terrifying In Its Bigness.

Criticism Is Like Many Other Things, It Drags Along After What Has Already Been Said And Doesn't Get Out Of Its Rut.

The Artist Who Aims At Perfection In Everything Achieves It In Nothing.

God Is That Inner Presence Which Makes Us Admire The Beautiful And Consoles Us For Not Sharing The Happiness Of The Wicked.

Do Not Be Troubled For A Language, Cultivate Your Soul And She Will Show Herself.

Glory To That Homer Of Painting, To That Father Of Warmth And Enthusiasm... He Really Paints Men.

One Must Learn To Be Grateful For One's Own Findings.

One Always Has To Spoil A Picture A Little Bit, In Order To Finish It.

Talent Does Whatever It Wants To Do. Genius Does Only What It Can.

To Be Understood A Writer Has To Explain Almost Everything.

I Believe It Safe To Say That All Progress Must Lead, Not To Further Progress, But Finally To The Negation Of Progress, A Return To The Point Of Departure.

Nature Creates Unity Even In The Parts Of A Whole.

Parts Of A Whole

They Say That Each Generation Inherits From Those That Have Gone Before; If This Were So There Would Be No Limit To Man's Improvements Or To His Power Of Reaching Perfection. But He Is Very Far From Receiving Intact That Storehouse Of Knowledge Which The Centuries Have Piled Up Before Him; He May Perfect Some Inventions, But In Others, He Lags Behind The Originators, And A Great Many Inventions Have Been Lost Entirely. What He Gains On The One Hand, He Loses On The Other.

Commonplace People Have An Answer For Everything And Nothing Ever Surprises Them. They Try To Look As Though They Knew What You Were About To Say Better Than You Did Yourself, And When It Is Their Turn To Speak, They Repeat With Great Assurance Something That They Have Heard Other People Say, As Though It Were Their Own Invention.

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