Art, we are told, is a criterion of one's taste. How humiliating, should our taste turn out to be bad. Rather as though we were caught stark naked with a poor figure.

Every work of art has one indispensable mark ... the center of it is simple, however much the fulfillment may be complicated.

But the artist appeals to that part of our being which is not dependent on wisdom; to that in us which is a gift and not an acquisition-and therefore, more permanently enduring. He speaks to our capacity for delight and wonder, to the sense of mystery surrounding our lives: to our sense of pity, and beauty, and pain.

Art is a wholly physical language whose words are all the visible objects.

Art for art's sake.

The greatest danger in art is too much knowledge.

First move me, astonish me, break my heart, let me tremble, weep, stare, be enraged-only then regale my eyes.

Art is the stored honey of the human soul, gathered on wings of misery and travail.

Every artist writes his own autobiography.

'Tis the privilege of Art Thus to play its cheerful part, Man on earth to acclimate And bend the exile to his fate.