Happy Are The Painters, For They Shall

For The First 25 Years Of My Life, I Wanted Freedom. For The Next 25 Years, I Wanted Order. For The Next 25 Years, I Realized That Order Is Freedom.

Have Not Manet And Monet, Cézanne And Matisse, Rendered To Painting Something Of The Same Service Which Keats And Shelley Gave To Poetry After The Solemn And Ceremonious Literary Perfections Of The Eighteenth Century? They Have Brought Back To The Pictorial Art A New Draught Of Joie De Vivre; And The Beauty Of Their Work Is Instinct With Gaiety, And Floats In Sparkling Air. I Do Not Expect These Masters Would Particularly Appreciate My Defence, But I Must Avow An Increasing Attraction To Their Work.

The British People Are Good All Through. You Can Test Them As You Would Put A Bucket Into The Sea And Always Find It Salt.

One Is Quite Astonished To Find How Many Things There Are In The Landscape, And In Every Object In It, One Never Noticed Before. And This Is A Tremendous New Pleasure And Interest Which Invests Every Walk Or Drive With An Added Object. So Many Colours On The Hillside, Each Different In Shadow And In Sunlight; Such Brilliant Reflections In The Pool, Each A Key Lower Than What They Repeat; Such Lovely Lights Gilding Or Silvering Surface Or Outline, All Tinted Exquisitely With Pale Colour, Rose, Orange, Green Or Violet.

Opening Amenities Are Often Opening Inanities.