Chess is a sport. A violent sport.
Unless a picture shocks, it is nothing.
I was poking fun at myself most of all.
Chess can be described as the movement of pieces eating one another.
It is the spectators who make the pictures.
The curious thing about that moustache and goatee is that when you look at the Mona Lisa it becomes a man. It is not a woman disguised as a man; it is a real man, and that was my discovery, without realising it at the time.
There is no solution, for there is no problem.
The word ‘art’ interests me very much. If it comes from Sanskrit, as I’ve heard, it signifies ’making.
Art has the lovely habit of ruining all artistic theories.
All decisions in the artistic execution of the work rest with pure intuition and cannot be translated into a self-analysis.
I have drawn people’s attention to the fact that art is a mirage. A mirage, just like the oasis that appears in the desert. It is very beautiful, until the moment when you die of thirst, obviously. But we do not die of thirst in the field of art. The mirage has substance.
Art has absolutely no existence as veracity, as truth.
I believe that a picture, a work of art, lives and dies just as we do...
Art is like a shipwreck; it’s every man for himself.
Humor is the only reason to live.
I am still a victim of chess. It has all the beauty of art – and much more. It cannot be commercialized. Chess is much purer than art in its social position.
In New York in 1915 I bought at a hardware store a snow shovel on which I wrote in advance of the broken arm .
Since the tubes of paint used by the artist are manufactured and ready made products we must conclude that all the paintings in the world are ‘readymades aided’ and also works of assemblage.
Three or four drops of height have nothing to do with savageness.
In my day artists wanted to be outcasts, pariahs. Now they are all integrated into society.