GEORGES ROUAULT

Like the ostrich, head under wingWhen the roaring storm breaks,So many people take refugeUnder the soft pillowOf specious arguments.

In these gaudy times, we think we will shortly reach the point where everything is known, but the fact is we are ignoring the essential, which is love of all living things, of all beauty both visible and hidden.

The artist discards all theories, both his own and those of others. He forgets everything when he is in front of his canvas.

A tree against the sky possesses the same interest, the same character, the same expression as the figure of a human.

I am a believer and a conformist. Anyone can revolt; it is much more difficult to obey our inner promptings.

The conscience of an artist worthy of the name is like an incurable disease which causes him endless torment but occasionally fills him with silent joy.

Nothing is old, nothing is new, save the light of grace underneath which beats a human heart. The way of feeling, of understanding, of loving; the way of seeing the country, the faces that your father saw, that your mother knew. The rest is chimerical.

Subjective artists are one-eyed, but objective artists are blind.

I am a believer and a conformist.

Anyone can revolt. It is more difficult silently to obey our own inner promptings, and to spend our lives finding sincere and fitting means of expression for our temperament and our gifts.

Subjective artists are one-eyed, but objective artists are blind.

The conscience of an artist worthy of the name is like an incurable disease which causes him endless torment but occasionally fills him with silent joy.

The richness of the world, all artificial pleasures, have the taste of sickness and give off a smell of death in the face of certain spiritual possessions.

Often pagans, with their eyes wide open, do not see very clearly.

My only objective is to paint a Christ so moving that those who see him will be converted.

I am a believer and a conformist.

The artist discards all theories, both his own and those of others. He forgets everything when he is in front of his canvas.

For me, painting is a way to forget life. It is a cry in the night, a strangled laugh.

Nothing is old, nothing is new, save the light of grace underneath which beats a human heart. The way of feeling, of understanding, of loving; the way of seeing the country, the faces that your father saw, that your mother knew. The rest is chimerical.

A tree against the sky possesses the same interest, the same character, the same expression as the figure of a human.

Like the ostrich, head under wingWhen the roaring storm breaks,So many people take refugeUnder the soft pillowOf specious arguments.

Nothing is old, nothing is new, save the light of grace underneath which beats a human heart.

Anyone can revolt. It is more difficult silently to obey our own inner promptings, and to spend our lives finding sincere and fitting means of expression for our temperament and our gifts.

In these gaudy times, we think we will shortly reach the point where everything is known, but the fact is we are ignoring the essential, which is love of all living things, of all beauty both visible and hidden.

I am a believer and a conformist. Anyone can revolt; it is much more difficult to obey our inner promptings.