James McNeill Whistler (1834 – 1903)
American-born, British-based painter and etcher.
"I know of only two painters in the world," said a newly introduced feminine enthusiast to Whistler, "yourself and Velasquez." "Why," answered Whistler in dulcet tones, "why drag in Velasquez?"
You shouldn't say it is not good. You should say, you do not like it; and then, you know, you're perfectly safe.
If more than 5% of the people like a painting then burn it for it must be bad.
One cannot continually disappoint a Continent.
A group from Glasgow sought in 1891 to purchase his portrait of Thomas Carlyle was shocked that Whistler's price was 1000 guineas. A spokesman countered that the portrait was not even life size. Whistler replied, "But, you know, few men are life size."
Art is a goddess of dainty thought, reticent of habit, abjuring all obtrusiveness, purposing in no way to better others. She is, withal selfishly occupied with her own perfection only—having no desire to teach.
It is for the artist...in portrait painting to put on canvas something more than the face the model wears for that one day; to paint the man, in short, as well as his features.
[In response to a lady who said that a landscape reminded her of his work] Yes, madam, Nature is creeping up.
I am not arguing with you — I am telling you.
To say of a picture, as is often said in its praise, that it shows great and earnest labor, is to say that it is incomplete and unfit for view.
Oscar Wilde: "I wish I had said that"
Whistler: "You will, Oscar, you will."
The masterpiece should appear as the flower to the painter—perfect in its bud as in its bloom—with no reason to explain its presence—no mission to fulfill—a joy to the artist, a delusion to the philanthropist—a puzzle to the botanist—an accident of sentiment and alliteration to the literary man.
As music is the poetry of sound, so is painting the poetry of sight, and the subject-matter has nothing to do with harmony of sound or of colour. The great musicians knew this. Beethoven and the rest wrote music — simply music; symphony in this key, concerto or sonata in that. . . . Art should be independent of all claptrap — should stand alone, and appeal to the artistic sense of eye or ear, without confounding this with emotions entirely foreign to it, as devotion, pity, love, patriotism, and the like. All these have no kind of concern with it; and that is why I insist on calling my works 'arrangements' and 'harmonies.'
May I therefore acknowledge the tender glow of health induced by reading, as I sat here in the morning sun, the flattering attention paid me by your gentleman of ready wreath and quick biography!
John Ruskin: "The labour of two days is that for which you ask two hundred guineas?"
Whistler: "No. I ask it for the knowledge I have gained in the work of a lifetime."
Listen! There was never an artistic period. There was never an art-loving nation.
Art should be independent of all claptrap — should stand alone [...] and appeal to the artistic sense of eye or ear, without confounding this with emotions entirely foreign to it, as devotion, pity, love, patriotism and the like.
It takes a long time for a man to look like his portrait.
Industry in art is a necessity—not a virtue—and any evidence of the same, in the production, is a blemish, not a quality; a proof, not of achievement, but of absolutely insufficient work, for work alone will efface the footsteps of work.
Just as music is the poetry of the ear, so painting is that of the eye.