The Contour Should Come Last, Only A

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.

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

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.

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

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