Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth

Everyone wants to understand painting. 

Why don’t they try to 

understand the song of the birds? 

Why do they love a night, a flower, 

everything which surrounds man, 

without attempting to understand them? 

Whereas where painting is concerned, 

they want to understand. 

Let them understand above all 

that the artist works from necessity; 

that he, too, 

is a minute element of the world 

to whom one should ascribe no more importance 

than so many things in nature 

which charm us but which we do not explain to ourselves. 

Those who attempt to explain a picture are on the wrong track 

most of the time.

 Pablo Picasso

Boisgeloup, winter 1934

Easter Day

THE silver trumpets rang across the Dome:  
  The people knelt upon the ground with awe:  
  And borne upon the necks of men I saw,  
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.  
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,         
  And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,  
  Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:  
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.  

My heart stole back across wide wastes of years  
  To One who wandered by a lonely sea,  
  And sought in vain for any place of rest:  
“Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,  
  I, only I, must wander wearily,  
  And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.”

Oscar Wilde