Degas Quotes

Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.

Only when he no longer knows what he is doing does the painter do good things.

And even this heart of mine has something artificial. The dancers have sewn it into a bag of pink satin, pink satin slightly faded, like their dancing shoes.

I want to be famous but unknown!

A painting requires a little mystery, some vagueness, and some fantasy. When you always make your meaning perfectly plain you end up boring people

Art is vice. You don't wed it, you rape it.

Painting is easy when you don't know how, but very difficult when you do.

An Excerpt from “The Greatest Miracle in the World” - "Consider a painting by Rembrandt or a bronze by Degas or a violin by Stradivarius or a play by Shakespeare.  They have great value for two reasons:  their creators were masters and they are few in number.  Yet there are more than one of each of these. On that reasoning you are the most valuable treasure on the face of the earth, for you know who created you and there is only one of you. Never, in all of the seventy billion humans who have walked this planet since the beginning of time has there been anyone exactly like you.  Never, until the end of time, will there be another such as you. You have shown no knowledge or appreciation of your uniqueness. Yet, you are the rarest thing in the world.

So that's the telephone? They ring, and you run.

The paintings that laughed at him merrily from the walls were like nothing he had ever seen or dreamed of. Gone were the flat, thin surfaces. Gone was the sentimental sobriety. Gone was the brown gravy in which Europe had been bathing its pictures for centuries. Here were pictures riotously mad with the sun. With light and air and throbbing vivacity. Paintings of ballet girls backstage, done in primitive reds, greens, and blues thrown next to each other irreverantly. He looked at the signature. Degas.

Degas is one of the very few painters who have given the floor its true importance.

One has to commit a painting,' said Degas, 'the way one commits a crime.

Success! Success! The enemy of progress!

We were created to look at one another, weren't we

C'est vrai. Voilá quelqu'un qui sent comme moi. (It is true. There is someone who feels as I do).

Muses work all day long and then at night get together and dance...

Sakau neregiui : eikite, jau žalia, o pats galvoju : kaip simboliška! Juk tai tiesiog kasdienis reiškinys - žmogui prieš nosį dega šviesa (išsigelbėjimas, išganymas, gėris, grožis ir tiesa), o jis stovi ir nieko nemato.

Art critic! Is that a profession? When I think we are stupid enough, we painters, to solicit those people's compliments and to put ourselves into their hands! What shame! Should we even accept that they talk about our work?

Art is vice. You don't marry it legitimately, you rape it.

Everybody has talent at twenty-five. The difficult thing is to have it at fifty.

The poet Mallarmé listened to the painter Degas complaining about his inability to write poems even though “he was full of ideas.” “My dear Degas,” Mallarmé responded, “poems are not made out of ideas. They’re made out of words.

My art, what do you want to say about it? Do you think you can explain the merits of a picture to those who do not see them? . . . I can find the best and clearest words to explain my meaning, and I have spoken to the most intelligent people about art, and they have not understood; but among people who understand, words are not necessary, you say humph, he, ha and everything has been said.

She smelled of vanilla and strawberries. She tasted of mint. It sounds like fruit salad but the effect was sweet, innocent and fresh.

The creation of a painting takes as much trickery and premeditation as the commitment of a crime.

Poetry is a kind of lying, necessarily. To profit the poet or beauty. But also in that truth may be told only so. Those who, admirably, refuse to falsify (as those who will not risk pretensions) are excluded from saying even so much. Degas said he didn’t paint what he saw, but what would enable them to see the thing he had.

(All those paintings of women, in art galleries, surprised at private moments. Nymph Sleeping. Susanna and the Elders. Woman bathing, one foot in a tin tub - Renoir, or was it Degas? both, both women plump. Diana and her maidens, a moment before they catch the hunter's prying eyes. Never any paintings called Man Washing Socks in Sink.)

Zolang wij onze dierbaren om ons heen hebben, houden wij van ze om alles wat ze uitzonderlijk maakt, maar zijn ze weg dan missen wij vooral hun dagelijks doen.

Ingres’ pencil pursues ideal grace to the point of monstrosity: the spine never long and supple enough, the neck flexible enough, the thighs smooth enough, or all the curves of the body sufficiently beguiling to the eye, which envelopes and caresses more than it seems them. The Odalisque, with a hint of the plesiosaurus about her, makes one wonder what might have resulted from a carefully controlled selection, through the centuries, of a breed of woman specially designed for pleasure – as the English horse is bred for racing.

Art is not what you see but what you make others see

There’ll be nothing left of us, any more than of them I’d stake more than my life on it So smile. I crouch down in front of the tombs of: Anaïs Caussin (1986–1993) Nadège Gardon (1985–1993) Océane Degas (1984–1993) Léonine Toussaint (1986–1993)

I spit upon the dancers painted by Degas. I spit upon their short bodies, their stiff stays, their toes whereupon they spin like peg-tops, above all upon that chambermaid face. They might have looked timeless, Remeses the Great, but not the chambermaid, that old maid history. I spit! I spit! I spit!

I have seen some very beautiful things through my anger, and what consoles me a little, is that through my anger I do not stop looking...

It's not with ideas, my dear Degas, that one makes verse. It's with words." - the poet Mallarmé to Degas

It is almost as if the decline of the idea of eternity coincided with the increasing aversion to sustained effort.

Penso em aceitar decididamente minha profissão de louco, assim como Degas tomou a forma de um escrivão.

Art is not what you see, but what you make others see. —Edgar Degas

Your childhood sounds like a Degas picnic

J'aime mieux Un Fra Angelico qu'un torche-cul de Degas!" (cité par Charles Camoin).

While endowed with the morose temper of genius, he [Lakes, Arts Professor] lacked originality and was aware of that lack; his own paintings always seemed beautifully clever imitations, although one could never quite tell whose manner he mimicked. His profound knowledge of innumerable techniques, his indifference to 'schools' and 'trends', his detestation of quacks, his conviction that there was no difference whatever between a genteel aquarelle of yesterday and, say, conventional neoplasticism or banal non-objectivism of today, and that nothing but individual talent mattered--these views made of him an unusual teacher. St Bart's was not particularly pleased either with Lake's methods or with their results, but kept him on because it was fashionable to have at least one distinguished freak on the staff. Among the many exhilarating things Lake taught was that the order of the solar spectrum is not a closed circle but a spiral of tints from cadmium red and oranges through a strontian yellow and a pale paradisal green to cobalt blues and violets, at which point the sequence does not grade into red again but passes into another spiral, which starts with a kind of lavender grey and goes on to Cinderella shades transcending human perception. He taught that there is no such thing as the Ashcan School or the Cache Cache School or the Cancan School. That the work of art created with string, stamps, a Leftist newspaper, and the droppings of doves is based on a series of dreary platitudes. That there is nothing more banal and more bourgeois than paranoia. That Dali is really Norman Rockwell's twin brother kidnapped by gipsies in babyhood. That Van Gogh is second-rate and Picasso supreme, despite his commercial foibles; and that if Degas could immortalize a calèche, why could not Victor Wind do the same to a motor car?

The first moment I saw you" – I inched closer to her – "scowling at that Degas like it was shit on a canvas…" I looked at her. "I wanted you more than I’d ever wanted anything." The moment I’d set eyes on her, I had to face her. A thoughtful expression appeared on her face. "A lot’s changed." "Nothing has changed," I shot back.

(All those paintings of women, in art galleries, surprised at private moments. Nymph Sleeping. Susanna and the Elders. Woman Bathing, one foot in a tin tub – Renoir, or was it Degas? Both, both women plump. Diana and her maidens, a moment before they catch the hunter’s prying eyes. Never any paintings called Man Washing Socks in Sink.)

I was also, slowly, to learn that there were painters whom you grew out of (like the Pre-Raphaelites); painters you grew into (Chardin); painters towards whom you had a lifelong, sighing indifference (Greuze); painters you suddenly became aware of after years of unnoticing (Liotard, Hammershoi, Cassatt, Vallotton); painters assuredly great but to whom your response was always a bit negligent (Rubens); and painters who would, whatever age you were, remain persistently, indomitably great (Piero, Rembrandt, Degas). And then – perhaps the slowest advance of all – I permitted myself to believe, or rather see, that not all Modernism was entirely wonderful. That some parts of it were better than others; that maybe Picasso could be vainglorious, Miró and Klee could be twee, Léger could be repetitive, and so on. I eventually came to realise that Modernism had strengths and weaknesses and a built-in obsolescence, just like all other art movements. Which, as it happens, made it more rather than less interesting.

I’ve had so many influences and sources of inspiration as an illustrator that it is impossible to name just one. I loved Aubrey Beardsley when I was a student, and then Edmund Dulac and other Golden Age illustrators made a big impact, as well as Victorian painters like Richard Dadd and Edward Burne-Jones. My long-term heroes though are Albretch Durer, Brueghel, Hieronymous Bosch, Jan Van Eyck, Leonardo, Botticelli, Rembrandt, Turner and Degas. What most of them have in common is brilliant draughtsmanship and a strong linear or graphic quality. Most are also printmakers. The one I keep going back to and who fascinates me the most is JMW Turner, the greatest watercolourist.

I would rather do nothing than do a rough sketch without having looked at anything. My memories will do better.

But to me, the argument is just semantics, an exercise in mental masturbation. True, Degas painted neither plein air nor spontaneously, but he had his own way of bringing his impressions into the heart of the viewer: his focus on the movement of racehorses and ballet dancers, his depiction of the ordinary milliner or washer woman or bather, caught in a complete lack of self-consciousness.

Degas, more than any other Realist, looked upon the photograph not merely as a means of documentation, but rather as an inspiration: it evoked the spirit of his own imagery of the spontaneous, the fragmentary and the immediate. Thus, in a certain sense, critics of Realism were quite correct to equate the objective, detached, scientific mode of photography, and its emphasis on the descriptive rather than the imaginative or evaluative, with the basic qualities of Realism itself. As Paul Valéry pointed out in an important though little known article: ‘the moment that photography appeared, the descriptive genre began to invade Letters. In verse as in prose, the décor and the exterior aspects of life took an almost excessive place.… With photography… realism pronounces itself in our Literature’ and, he might have said, in our art as well.

The masters must be copied over and over again," Degas said, "and it is only after proving yourself a good copyist that you should reasonably be permitted to draw a radish from nature." Degas first received permission to copy paintings at the Louvre in 1853 when he was eighteen. He was most interested in the great works of the Italian Renaissance and of his own classical French heritage, hence this detailed copy of Poussin's painting

And please, whatever you do, don’t tell us that what we do, either in love or lust, is unnatural. For one thing if what you mean by that is that animals don’t do it, then you are quite simply in factual error. There are plenty of activities or qualities we could list that are most certainly unnatural if you are so mad as to think that humans are not part of nature, or so dull-witted as to believe that ‘natural’ means ‘all natures but human nature’: mercy, for example, is un¬natural, an altruistic, non-selfish care and love for other species is unnatural; charity is unnatural, justice is unnatural, virtue is unnatural, indeed — and this surely is the point — the idea of virtue is unnatural, within such a foolish, useless meaning of the word ‘natural’. Animals, poor things, eat in order to survive: we, lucky things, do that too, but we also have Abbey Crunch biscuits, Armagnac, selle d’agneau, tortilla chips, sauce béarnaise, Vimto, hot buttered crumpets, Chateau Margaux, ginger-snaps, risotto nero and peanut-butter sandwiches — these things have nothing to do with survival and everything to do with pleasure, connoisseurship and plain old greed. Animals, poor things, copulate in order to reproduce: we, lucky things, do that too, but we also have kinky boots, wank-mags, leather thongs, peep-shows, statuettes by Degas, bedshows, Tom of Finland, escort agencies and the Journals of Anaïs Nin — these things have nothing to do with reproduction and everything to do with pleasure, connoisseurship and plain old lust. We humans have opened up a wide choice of literal and metaphorical haute cuisine and junk food in many areas of our lives, and as a punishment, for daring to eat the fruit of every tree in the garden, we were expelled from the Eden the animals still inhabit and we were sent away with the two great Jewish afflictions to bear as our penance: indigestion and guilt.

—Cuando llega la hora de la verdad, en realidad sólo existen dos tipos de hombres en el mundo —dijo Andy, protegiendo una cerilla con ambas manos ahuecadas y encendiendo un cigarrillo—. Supongamos, Red, que hubiera una casa llena de pinturas y esculturas extrañas y de bellos objetos antiguos. Y supongamos que el propietario de la casa se enterara de que un huracán espantoso avanzaba precisamente en aquella dirección. Uno de los dos tipos de hombres a que me refiero, sencillamente espera que suceda lo mejor. El huracán puede cambiar de curso, se dice a sí mismo. Ningún huracán bien pensante se atrevería jamás a destruir todos esos Rembrandts, mis dos caballos de Degas, mis Grant Wood y mis Benton. Además, Dios no lo permitiría. Y si de todos modos ocurriera lo peor, están asegurados. Ése es un tipo de hombre. El otro sencillamente supone que el huracán arrasará la casa sin más. Si el centro meteorológico anuncia que el huracán ha cambiado de curso, este individuo cree que volverá a cambiar para arrasar su casa. Este segundo tipo de individuo sabe que no existe mal alguno en esperar lo mejor, siempre que estés preparado para lo peor. Yo también encendí un cigarrillo. —¿Me estás diciendo que estás preparado para la eventualidad? —Sí. Estoy preparado para el huracán.

In heaven’s name, after a painter like Monet, who is an absolute genius, don’t go and mention an old hack without a vestige of talent, like Poussin. I don’t mind telling you frankly that I find him the deadliest bore. I mean to say, you can’t really call that sort of thing painting. Monet, Degas, Manet, yes, there are painters if you like! It is a curious thing,” she went on, fixing a scrutinous and ecstatic gaze upon a vague point in space where she could see what was in her mind, “it is a curious thing, I used at one time to prefer Manet. Nowadays, I still admire Manet, of course, but I believe I like Monet even more. Oh! The Cathedrals!

Like all Freed musicals and all Astaire musicals, The Band Wagon believes that high and low, art and entertainment, elite and popular aspirations meet in the American musical. The Impressionist originals in Tony’s hotel room, which eventually finance his snappier vision of the show, draw not only a connection to An American in Paris but to painters, like Degas, who found art in entertainers. The ultimate hymn to this belief is the new Dietz and Schwartz song for the film, “That’s Entertainment,” which is to filmusicals what Berlin’s “There’s No Business Like Show Business” is to the stage.11 Whether a hot plot teeming with sex, a gay divorcée after her ex, or Oedipus Rex, whether a romantic swain after a queen or “some Shakespearean scene (where a ghost and a prince meet and everything ends in mincemeat),” it’s all one world of American entertainment. “Hip Hooray, the American way.” Dietz’s lyrics echo Mickey’s theorem in Strike Up the Band. What’s American? Exactly this kind of movie musical from Mount Hollywood Art School.

Being able to draw well’, he goes on, ‘is the hardest thing – far harder than painting, as one can easily see from the fact that there are so few great draughtsmen compared to the number of great painters – Ingres, Degas, just a few.

Art is not what you see, but what you make others see

You don’t buy photographs from Otto Leipzig, you don’t buy Degas from Signor Benati, follow me?” “Do

Suzanne’s life seemed to have taken an altogether different course. With matters at home so chaotic, she had all but stopped producing the bold figure studies with confident lines that Degas so admired.

Her withdrawal from creative life did not go unnoticed. ‘Every year, Terrible Maria, I see arrive this firm, chiselled writing,’ Degas observed, ‘but I never see the author appear with a folder under her arm. And yet I am growing old. Happy New Year.’16

In a form of homage to the Impressionist painters, Proust inserted one into his novel, the fictional Elstir, who shares traits with Renoir, Degas and Manet. In the seaside resort of Balbec, Proust's narrator visits Elstir's studio, where he finds canvasses that, like Monet's Le Havre, challenge the orthodox understanding of what things look like. In Elstir's seascapes, there is no demarcation between the sea and the sky, the sky looks like the sea, the sea like the sky. In a painting of a harbour at Carquehuit, a ship that is out at sea seems to be sailing through the middle of the town, women gathering shrimps among the rocks look as if they were in a marine grotto overhung by ships and waves, a group of holidaymakers in a boat look like they were in a cariole riding up through sunlit fields and down through shady patches. Elstir is not trying his hand at surrealism. If his work seems unusual, it is because he is attempting to paint something of what we actually see when we look around, rather than what we know we see.

Impressionists, Cubists, and Surrealists who had stunned the world between 1870 and 1960 by entirely redefining art. VAN GOGH… SEURAT… PICASSO… MUNCH… MATISSE… MAGRITTE… KLIMT… KANDINSKY… JOHNS… HOCKNEY… GAUGUIN… DUCHAMP… DEGAS… CHAGALL… CÉZANNE… CASSATT… BRAQUE… ARP… ALBERS…

Impressionists, Cubists, and Surrealists who had stunned the world between 1870 and 1960 by entirely redefining art. VAN GOGH… SEURAT… PICASSO… MUNCH… MATISSE… MAGRITTE… KLIMT… KANDINSKY… JOHNS… HOCKNEY… GAUGUIN… DUCHAMP… DEGAS… CHAGALL… CÉZANNE… CASSATT… BRAQUE… ARP… ALBERS… This section terminated at one last architectural rib, and Langdon moved past it, finding himself in the final section of the library. The volumes here appeared to be dedicated to the group of artists that Edmond, in Langdon’s presence, liked to call “the school of boring dead white guys”—essentially, anything predating the modernist movement of the mid-nineteenth century. Unlike Edmond, it was here that Langdon felt most at home, surrounded by the Old Masters. VERMEER… VELÁZQUEZ… TITIAN… TINTORETTO… RUBENS… REMBRANDT… RAPHAEL… POUSSIN… MICHELANGELO… LIPPI… GOYA… GIOTTO… GHIRLANDAIO… EL GRECO… DÜRER… DA VINCI… COROT… CARAVAGGIO… BOTTICELLI… BOSCH… The last few feet of the final shelf were dominated by a large glass cabinet, sealed with a heavy lock. Langdon peered through the glass and saw an ancient-looking leather box inside—a protective casing for a massive antique book. The text on the outside of the box was barely legible, but Langdon could see enough to decrypt the title of the volume inside. My God, he thought, now realizing why this book had been locked away from the hands of visitors. It’s probably worth a fortune. Langdon knew there were precious few early editions of this legendary artist’s work in existence. I’m not surprised Edmond invested in this, he thought, recalling that Edmond had once referred to this British artist as “the only premodern with any imagination.” Langdon disagreed, but he could certainly understand Edmond’s special affection for this artist. They are both cut from the same cloth. Langdon crouched down and peered through the glass at the box’s gilded engraving: The Complete Works of William Blake. William Blake, Langdon mused. The Edmond Kirsch of the eighteen hundreds. Blake had been an idiosyncratic genius—a prolific luminary whose painting style was so progressive that some believed he had magically glimpsed the future in his dreams. His symbol-infused religious illustrations depicted angels, demons, Satan, God, mythical creatures, biblical themes, and a pantheon of deities from his own spiritual hallucinations

she could not miss the Kennedy Center’s production of The Dancer, a musical based on Edgar Degas’s famous painting Little Dancer Aged Fourteen.

Seni bukan tentang apa yang kita lihat, tetapi tentang apa yang kita membuat orang lain lihat.

Vienintelį tikrą, realų pragarą žmogus susikuria čia, Žemėje, o dabar neretai ir savo paties širdyje. Ypač kai dega neapykanta kitam žmogui, kitai tautai, rasei, kitokioms pažiūroms.

the art critic Crémer reminds Wyatt of Degas’s remark “that the artist must approach his work in the same frame of mind in which the criminal commits his deed

Manet also had an argument with Degas, the end result being that they each returned paintings that they had previous given to each other.

Pressed to give a name to this misty play of light on the water for the catalogue for the 1874 exposition that included Cézanne, Pissarro, Renoir, and Degas, Monet apparently said, “put ‘impression.’” The painting, Impression, Sunrise, certainly made one, as did the show—thereafter the group was referred to as the Impressionists.

There are really only two types of men in this world when it comes to bad trouble,' Andy said cupping a match between his hands and lighting a cigarette. 'Suppose there was a house full of rare paintings and sculptures and fine old antiques, Red? And suppose the guy who owned the house heard that there was a monster of a hurricane headed right at it. One of those two kinds of men just hopes for the best. The hurricane will change course, he says to himself. No right-thinking hurricane would ever dare wipe out all the Rembrandts, my two Degas horses, my Jackson Pollocks and my Paul Klees. Furthermore, God wouldn't allow it. And worst comes to worst, they're insured. Thats's one sort of man. The other sort just assumes that the hurricane is going to tear right though the middle of his house. If the weather bureau says the hurricane just changed course, this guy assumes it'll change back in order to put his house on ground zero again. This second type of guy knows there's no harm in hoping for the best as long as you're prepared for the worst.

Are you the staying at Degas’ mansion?” he asked. “Yes,” Nora said. “I’m Nora. And you are?” “Professor Brooklyn Thomas,” he said. “I study snakes and, well, as you can see, I’m helping Degas recapture this particular one.” “Not much help, are you?” Tina said with a snicker. The professor colored. “Yes. Well… I’m more of an academic than a field man.” He rubbed at his hands, and scratched a mosquito bite.  Nora, who was looking at his callused hands, thought that he in fact looked more like a field man than an academic. He was extremely fit, with the physique of an Olympic rower, and a tanned handsome face. Degas reappeared, looking flushed and pleased. “Got him,” he said. “We got him, professor.” “Excellent,” the professor said.

Kalbimi pembe saten bir ayakkabıya hapsettim.” Edgar Degas

Ik heb weinig geduld met andermans leven, merk ik. Het ontmoedigt mij te zien hoe een mens zich jaar in, jaar uit voortsleept van bijzaak naar bijzaak zonder dat daar enige lijn in te ontdekken valt, niet in de laatste plaats door diegene zelf.

La révolution ne va pas sans explosion de colère – Rage Against the Machine. Valéry mettait un grand soin à distinguer la rage de la colère. Parlant de Degas, il loue la colère qui peut être savamment réglée, tandis que la rage est discordante, grossière. [...] La seconde demande à être irriguée par tout ce qui peut contribuer à lui donner de l'ampleur, elle s'adresse à Dieu, à toute entité supérieure, elle est souvent la manifestation d'une négativité chargée d'électricité, transformée en démonstration de force, elle est ce qui meut les révoltés, les indignés, les oubliés, les indigents, quand l'atonie n'a pas fait d'eux des résignés, elle est aussi ce qui stimule les redresseurs de torts, quand l'espoir ne les a pas totalement quittés : ils sont les successeurs des haïdoucs, ces brigands séditieux, ces guérilleros en guerre contre les puissants, que les livres de Panaït Istrati ont magnifiés, rappelant qu'ils étaient des vengeurs animés par la colère plutôt que par la haine. (p. 47-49)

I can't take my eyes from the brushwork, the depth of the values, the saturation of the colors. How did Degas do its rabbit-skin glue in his sizing? yellow ochre in his underpainting? egg temper in his medium? But these are only technical questions. The genius of this painting is much more than technique-and quite impossible to replicate.

– Je me rappelle surtout un fait que nous a rapporté mon père, comme il rentrait à la maison un des jours d’émeutes. Des gens tiraient sur la troupe. Un passant s’approche d’un homme qui n’arrivait pas à toucher son but ; et lui prend le fusil des mains, vise un soldat qui tombe et comme il rendait l’arme à son propriétaire, celui-ci eut un geste comme pour lui dire : “Continuez, vous vous en servez si bien.” Et l’autre : “Non, ce n’est pas dans mes opinions.” Degas se plaisait à ces récits du passé.

Un jour, Mme de Staël était dans une barque sur le lac Léman avec Mme Récamier et Benjamin Constant, quand un des rameurs : " ce nuage à l'horizon nous annonce un gros temps." " Dites, Benjamin, fit Mme de Staël, si nous faisions naufrage qui de nous deux sauveriez-vous ?" Et Benjamin Constant à Mme de Staël : "vous, vous savez nager.

Degas, lui, conseillait à ses confrères et aux jeunes artistes de ne jamais peindre d'après nature. Pour lui, l'œuvre d'art–en l'espèce, la peinture–était ou, du moins, devait être non point la copie servile d'une chose vue, mais un produit de l'imagination. Même s'il n'hésitait pas, partant en guerre avec sa passion coutumière contre les peintres de "plein-air", à déclarer qu'il fallait "coller ceux-ci au poteau" ou les empêcher officiellement de peindre à leur manière. (p. 9)

Troleibusas lėkė kaip raketa. Tokiu greičiu viešuoju transportu važiavau turbūt pirmą karta gyvenime. Gatvės buvo visiškai tuščios. Pasirodo, tokiu metu žmonės miega arba dar tik ruošiasi į darbą, o tokiems angliakasiams, prostitutėms arba, žinoma, virėjams, kaip aš dega visos žalios šviesos.

Degas wanted to undermine the stereotype, assert a truth that society ignores — wants to ignore. Dance is not a fairy tale, it’s a painful profession. The little rats are Cinderellas without fairy godmothers, they don’t become princesses, and their carriageless coachmen remain mice, as gray as the cotton ticking of their slippers. They are children who work, the likes of dressmaker’s apprentices, child-minders, and salesgirls, but they work harder than the others.

Degas, the most conservative of the group, was adamantly anti-Dreyfus and adamantly anti-Semitic as well.

Degas, who did not seem to have taken much personal interest in any of these girls except as models for his paintings, was endlessly interested in their lives, including the older men who hovered so possessively over them. These men, termed “lions,” appear again and again in his paintings, sometimes adjusting a costume or sometimes simply watching. Degas

A pair of black cocker spaniels burst in the room, yapping excitedly and jumping on the twins, who both dropped to the floor to play with them. Pandora was on all fours, pretending to pounce on Napoleon, who flopped onto his back in joyful surrender. Kathleen opened her mouth to protest, but shook her head in resignation, recognizing that any attempt to calm the boisterous girls would be useless. Devon, Lord Trenear, entered the room and grinned at the mayhem. “How soothing,” he remarked to the room at large. “Like a Degas painting: ‘Young Ladies at Afternoon Tea.

Among artists, Pissarro and Monet were Dreyfusard, Degas and Cézanne Anti.

the movie Dr. Strangelove. President Kennedy was assassinated shortly before the movie was completed, and in post-production Stanley Kubrick had Slim Pickens dub the word “Vegas” over the word “Dallas” in one of his lines. “I always heard ‘a pretty good weekend in Degas

Rien en art ne doit ressembler à un accident, même le mouvement.

His story was almost word for word the same as Caroline Sack's, and hearing it a second time made it plain how remarkable the achievement of the Impressionists really was. They were artistic geniuses. But they were also possessed of a rare wisdom about the world. They were capable of looking at what the rest of us thought of as a great advantage, and seeing it for what it really was. Monet, Degas, Cezanne, Renoir, and Pissarro would have gone to their second choice.

she could take a seat for the evening in the Café de la Nouvelle Athènes. Conveniently located on the Place Pigalle, it was to this café that Édouard Manet and his Impressionist companions had switched allegiance from the Café Guerbois in the 1870s.16 It was also the café whose unremarkable interior Edgar Degas used as the setting for his In the Café (The Absinthe Drinker) (1875–1876).

Art isn’t something you marry. It’s something you rape.

Negalima norėti nesuderinamų dalykų. Todėl jie ir nesuderinami. Negali išsaugoti pyrago ir jį suvalgyti. Negali pasilaikyti ko nors ir drauge tai sunaikinti. Noras tausoti tai, ką turi, ir drauge paleisti viską į laisvę, atsitraukti ir stebėti kaip dega...

Degas was astounded by the pieces Suzanne brought to show him. How a linen maid’s daughter with not a day’s training could take a pencil and handle it with such assurance, maintain such confident control of a line as to bring a form to life on a flat page, left him speechless.

Une cuisse, une fleur, un chignon, ballerines contordues en l'envol du tutu; le nez d'un pompier; rashers et jockeys évoluant sur le vert; une main de modiste dans une palpitation de plumes et de rubans; des cires peintes qui vivent. Cinématique infaillible. Les roueries des lumières artificielles surprises. Le Moderne exprimé.

It was not until 1869 that Claude Monet became a friend of Edouard Manet, joining Manet’s circle, which by now included Zola, Cézanne, and Degas.

Suzanne was resolutely working-class and had never set foot in an art school or atelier in any other capacity than as a model. Degas and Bartholomé could feel rightly proud.

With Suzanne’s command of line, soft ground etching was a fitting progression. It was the first formal art teaching she had ever received. Suzanne produced a series of nudes on Degas’s press, several of her maid, Catherine, drying herself by the side