There is only one thing left for you to do,” John Sloan advised one artist. “Pull off your socks and try with your feet.
[I]t was [Barnett] Newman who made the famously wry remark, “Aesthetics is for the artist as ornithology is for the birds,
Gertrude’s remedy for her mood swings was to print up hundreds of black-bordered calling cards embossed with the single word “Woe,” which she handed out gaily declaring, “Woe is me.
It might be said of Miss [Djuna] Barnes,” [T.S. Eliot] wrote, “who is incontestably one of the most original writers of our time, that never has so much genius been combined with so little talent.
As George Russell defined a literary movement: “Five or six men who live in the same town and hate each other.
Finally, when someone asked [Pollack] how he knew when a painting was finished, he replied, “How do you know when you’ve finished making love?
Hans then asked him about painting from nature; Jackson...bluntly offered a phrase that entered Village lore, “I am nature.
