I wrote this about 15 years ago. It's a collection of the exalted, pompous ramblings of the greatest charlatan of the 20th century. Many of his quotes geot taken out of context, shortened for greater effect - because the shorter a quote the more impressive it is to the meek mind of a mentally-challenged gullibtard. Here, in all their anti-glory, are the fully transcribed quotes, with no censorship, and no re-writing of Pico's foul language.
Here it is, the ultimate collection of Pee-pee's "wisest" statements, translated for you, because I know that most people aren't capable of interpreting Bulshittese. It's a language like any other; takes time to learn, figure out, master. The tiny Andalusian Master of Bullshit dequoted by another bullshitter: it takes one to know one - and understand one. And I understand these bastards better than anyone.
Quotes From Pee-Pee That They Took Out Of Context:
"Art is not the application of a canon of beauty but what the instinct and the brain can conceive beyond any canon. When we love a woman we don’t start measuring her limbs…
… Measuring her limbs takes way too much time, and time is money. I'd rather just draw a leg on her face. That way it doesn't matter how long it is in relation to her other three legs."
"Art is never chaste. It ought to be forbidden to ignorant innocents, never allowed into contact with those not sufficiently prepared…
… Naturally, I am referring to all of my critics and others who correctly point out that my art is cheap garbage and that I am a sly charlatan who misuses the gullibility of the innocents - which is so ironic, because I just lied how my critics are the innocents, when it's actually my supporters who are the sheepy gullibtards...."
"Yes, art is dangerous…
… and my art is downright merciless and vile. Show three of my paintings to a recovering schizophrenic and he'll be back in therapy in no time. Come to think of it… any mental patient can draw as well as me if not better. But don't tell anyone!"
"Painting is just another way of keeping a diary…
… For example, my brilliant work, Nude Lady Bathing means that I had sex with a street whore that day in my bathtub. Likewise, Small Andalusian Man With Even Smaller Penis means that I couldn't get it up the previous night and that I comforted myself by imagining men far worse off than myself. And Nude Lady Bathing With Small Man With Tiny Andalusian Penis… Well, I think I won't necessarily go into that… Okay, fine! On that day I couldn't get it up with the toilet whore and fantasized that it wasn't me but a small, pathetic man with tiny genitals. Happy?!..."
"Where it is chaste, it is not art…
… Who ever considered a painting without extreme violence or gratuitous nudity as valuable?! Tits and blood: the two essential prerequisites to proper art. To shock is to be rebellious, and rebellion is the ultimate expression of infantile, narcissistic, attention-seeking desperation."
"The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place; from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider’s web…
… hell, even from my own shit sometimes! I'll never forget the 12th November 1933 turd that inspired me to draw a picture of my ex-wife, Woman Urinating On Her Own Face While Her Neighbours Laugh At Her."
"If there is something to steal, I steal it!...
… after all, I am a Marxist!"
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| Have you stolen this shirt yet? Picasso's hero and colleague. |
"Genius is personality with two measures of talent…
… Before I continue: you do understand that I am talking about myself here?... Okay, now... Two measures of talent… 1st measure: the talent to bullshit even the greatest bullshitters under the table. 2nd measure: the length of el penis, which has to be rather long, wide and stiff. Did I mention that not all midgets have small penii?..."
"Painting is stronger than me, it makes me do its bidding…
… I am a slave to those merciless scribbles that have bought me villas and yachts. Oh, the pain of being a tortured artist, at the mercy of my own talent and divine drive!... My artistic soul suffers so under the enormous weight of my 11 Swiss accounts, a weight I only reluctantly carry, and I do it for the good of my fellow man, I suffer for all of humankind."
"When we discovered Cubism, we did not have the aim of discovering Cubism. We only wanted to express what was in us…
… which was a strong desire to reduce the amount of work and time needed to produce a painting. Now we can make fifty times the money we used to make! Besides, when I say 'we' I must make it clear what role Braque had in all this…"
"Braque is my wife…
… I would have never invented Cubism without his help; he cleans the floors, washes the dishes, cooks the food, while I struggle with squares, cubes and sometimes even triangles or hexagons. He grew to love his new role and in no time progressed to cleaning the house, tucking in the kids in the evenings, and making us all sandwiches for picnics. A decade later, and Braque changed his sex even, and became my 17th wife a week later. He is lousy in bed, but boy, what a slave to the oven!"
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| Georges and Georgina: before and after. "I always tell the stupid whore to put on less make-up. She looks like a goddamn clown. It's an embarrassment when we have to meet dignitaries: they always think an insane person snuck inside the building!" |
"People want to find a 'meaning' in everything and everyone. That's the disease of our age, an age that is anything but practical but believes itself to be more practical than any other age…
… Of course, I am being my usual hypocritical little self, because obviously there is nothing wrong when they search for meaningless meanings in my art. It is so full of mysteries, with its ugly lines, confusing shapes, and just outright disarray. Why, if modern art fans weren't so dumb where would I get the money to finance Marxist uprisings and weekly orgies with the best whores Mougins can provide!? They sit there, musing over whether the eyeball was placed on a girl's ass to symbolize her autoerotic anal fantasies, whereas in fact I was merely drunk that afternoon so I drew some random shit, as per usual."
"Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone…
… and methinks I'll put off for tomorrow trying to make sense of what I just said."
"I begin with an idea and then it becomes something else…
… Like a desire to masturbate. For example, I get an idea to draw a nude lady, and then certain hormones start kicking in and the initial inspiration leads to major respiration; to this other, less metaphysical idea which, in this case, magically transports my brain from my head to my groin…
The same with Communism. I began with the idea of a proletariat uprising (before Lenin even sucked milk, I stress here firmly) and then it developed into something else, something wonderful: mass slaughter in Soviet gulags. Life is so full of pleasant surprises… "
"I don't say everything, but I paint everything…
… except my tiny penis. It is none of anyone's business just how tiny it really is... But I jest, of course! The reason I never paint it is to not alienate all my fans who weren't blessed with the kind of enormous Andalusian sausage that I possess... One of my numerous talents... though I must not boast, for boasting is the language of the inferior-minded peasant."
"Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life…
… which is so boring for the proletariat. I can see how their miserable, irrelevant little mundane lives can be vastly improved by the sight of one of my paintings. They see a man with one eye and an arm growing out of his hip, and they say: "Look, I may have a pathetic life, but this guy's much worse off!" Art gives the soul hope that maybe the soul isn't so dusty after all. And for those whose soul isn't helped by art, well, fuck them! These putanas don't deserve to even breathe the same air that I do…
As for the everyday life of a relevant Artiste like myself, well, my soul hardly ever gets dusty: I got me whores left, right, and center, ready and willing at all times to seduce me, please me, and even suck my smelly hairy nipples if I so choose. Oh, it's so wonderful being a jet-set Marxist…"
"What do you think an artist is?...
… An asshole who tries to make me look bad by producing proper paintings?... A cabron who tries to shake my throne?...
An imbecile who only has eyes if he's a painter, ears if he's a musician, or a lyre in every chamber of his heart if he's a poet or even, if he's a boxer, only some muscles?...
… Is an artist a boxer with an imbecilic lyre in his heart who impersonates a muscular musician in a heart-shaped chamber? That's what I really meant to say… Is that it? Is than an artist?...
Quite the contrary, he is at the same time a political being constantly alert to the horrifying, passionate or pleasing events in the world, shaping himself completely in their image…
… and fuck my dead grandmama if I've seen a more pleasing political world event lately than millions of worthless peasants being slaughtered like chickens by Stalin in those wonderful gulags!!! Now, that's an artist!"
"Disciples be damned. It's not interesting. It's only the masters that matter. Those who create…
… I meant: the one that creates: Me. Of course I mean me. I always mean me, whenever I talk about artists in the superlative."
"Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up…
… In other words, every adult artist is kind of retarded, because he lost his innocence hence his artistic inspiration, for what is a toddler smearing his excrement over the walls but the manifestation of the ultimate artist.
Except me, of course. I am the great Picasso, after all, who is brilliant despite my age. My world-famous intellect has chosen Communism as the path to perfection. How can a Communist be retarded? Absurd!...
Every child is an artist. I can't repeat that often enough. But the reverse is also true: every bad artist is like a child. Take Degas, for example; that infantile cretin laughed when I smeared snot on my canvas! I mean, come on! Grow up, Degas! But just to show him how smart I am, I re-name the painting into, let's say, Green Soldier Lying In Grass (which sold for 3 million dollars, making my exalted snot the most expensive mucus in the universe). I added a couple of vague lines to suggest that maybe the soldier really is there and that perhaps, yes, there is also some grass there – and voila, the snot becomes part of the work!... Fuck Degas, what does he know about art, with his proper technique and fancy style... Only dumb peasants such as he try so hard. For us true artists trying is an embarrassment! To try and to work hard is to admit you're a failure, for it's divine inspiration that leads to great art, and this inspiration is effortless, it is easy. You wanna shit? Don't do it in the toilet. Smear it on a canvas instead. Or on a wall, if you're an infant."
"Nature does many things the way I do, but she hides them!...
… Nature always copies me! I am so above it in every way. I hide nothing! Fuck nature! If you want to find a bull on any of my paintings feel free to look – because you'll find him. That's the beauty of vagueness: you can see anything you want in a cacophony of colours, lines and very stupid random shapes, ergo nothing is hidden from you. Id est, nature is inferior to me. Hence I am God."
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| God does a rare Bela Lugosi impression. The most mystical midget to ever walk the Earth. |
"I don't work according to nature…
… because after all, I created nature as all gods eventually do. I work…
... in front and together with it…
… and sometimes behind it so I can do a bit of doggy style with it. Nothing like humping your own creation: just ask Michael Jackson…
An artist must observe the nature, but never confuse it with the art…
… of humping. Humping nature here and again is fine, but women are so much more fun in that regard. They have bigger tits, for one thing…"
"There are painters who transform the sun into a yellow spot, but there are others who, thanks to their art and intelligence, transform a yellow spot into the sun…
… I am, of course, referring once again to myself… Not Degas. That moron can't even transform the sun into a yellow spot, but a black one. Who ever heard of a black sun?! I, on the other hand, with my art and intelligence – and, oh yes, unbridled genius – can transform a blue line into New York City, an orange dot into my grandmother's face, a wavy line into a rainbow, a piece of snot that lands on the canvas into a forest of glorious splendour!... Let me take a breath…
Did I mention that I am working on transforming a tiny, white, invisible atom into a majestic battlefield with millions of soldiers with heads growing out of their thighs?"
"An artist must know how to convince others of the truth of his lies…
… if he is to survive painting weird-ass abstract three-brush-strokes gibberish in the 18th century. In the 20th century, however, an artist only need lift his little finger, and bullshit a little bit and everyone follows his work in awe. A modern artist needs to be much more gifted verbally, semantically than with the paintbrush. What he does on the canvas is secondary compared to what he later says about his work, how he rationalizes with imaginative gobbledygook his laziness and lack of talent. Therein lies the key to success in modern art: the ability to bullshit. That and nepotism, of course... Because now that literally anyone can get rich scribbling garbage, all the rich and spoiled daughters and sons of millionaires get to become artists."
"You have to have an idea of what you are going to do, but it should be a vague idea…
… which should lead to a vague effort which in turn results in a piece that vaguely resembles a painting."
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Vagueness expresses the alienation that is within us all. Or something... |
"When I have found something to express, I have done it without thinking of the past or the future…
… I am timeless! As all gods are... I'll give you a concrete example: I was going back home slightly drunk one day, just hoping I make it to my bed. The bed is all I wanted. Then, suddenly, I saw a 16 year-old girl undressing me with her look. I was only 57 then and even sexier than now. At that moment flashes of the past and hints of the future raced before my eyes. The past: I had already been arrested before for allegedly coming on to a minor. The future: I could get arrested again for the same. But I thought, screw the past or the future – let's enjoy the present. So I molested her.
What do we learn from all this?... That if you want to avoid arrest, cavort a minor when you're not too drunk so you can run away from the cops."
"How can anyone enter into my dreams, my instincts, my desires, my thoughts ... and above all grasp from them what I have been about - perhaps against my own will?...
… I also hate having my bum tickled against my will!
But let's start from the top, shall we? My dreams: about the in-out half the time. My instincts: I am such an animal that even I don't know half the time what I want. My desires: mostly sexual and often a little on the kinky side; I like to pee on chickens, for example. My thoughts: brilliant and yet elusive. There. End of story."
"To displace, to put eyes between the legs, or sex organs on the face. To contradict...
… everything they taught me at Art School. Screw them! What did they know! If I want to put a navel inside a nostril and the nose up the ass I'll do it. And not only to displace – but to spit at the canvas, vomit at it, indeed – dance on it with brushes randomly stuck between the toes, that is art. And it doesn't end there! Once, I threw a drawing into a meat-grinder and it came out that much better. Another time I took a mediocre painting and swiftly propelled it into greatness by forcing one of my whores to digest it: she crapped it the same evening and died. But what a masterpiece it became!"
"The refined, the rich, the professional 'do-nothings', the distillers of quintessence desire only the peculiar, the sensational, the eccentric, the scandalous in today's art..
… all of which was utterly foreign to a conservative moralist and traditionalist realist like myself. I in no way add to these artistic scandals by drawing two formless gorms fucking."
"I myself, since the advent of cubism, have fed these fellows what they wanted and satisfied these critics with all the ridiculous ideas that have crossed my mind…
… which is how you succeed in the world of modern art: you bullshit your way through a maze of semantic tomfoolery that even you yourself can't make heads nor tails of. You let the words flow and the random gibberish you say will make sense to the naive moron, just like a Rorschach test does.
I give the public what they want. Specifically, as it relates to painting, this means that if they wanted three breasts sticking out of a liver – I gave them five. If they wanted an unshaven vagina – I gave them enough bush to hide an elephant into. If they wanted a garden that looks like a balloon – I gave them a chair humping a woman's hairy leg."
"I do not… consider myself an artist at all, not in the grand old meaning of the word: Giotto, Titan, Rembrandt, Goya were great painters…
… but only if you compare them to plankton; having the same label attached to me as these limited journeymen would be an insult to a genius of as-yet unseen magnitude such I am. The dimensions and scope of my achievements and my potential defy any kind of semantic specification."
"There are only two types of women: goddesses and doormats…
… Goddesses are about three heads taller than me and pee on me only when I pay them thousands of dollars. Doormats are about one head taller than me and pee on me for only $50… As for men, there are only two types of men: Picassos and non-Picassos. Guess which of these two gets to shtoop goddesses every day?..."
"Anything new, anything worth doing, can't be recognized. People just don't have that much vision…
… which isn't really their fault. Not everyone can be a god, let alone a Picasso… Only the Great Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno CrispÃn Crispiniano MarÃa Remedios de la SantÃsima Trinidad Ruiz Picasso can stick a giraffe's head inside the buttocks of a three-legged woman and get paid millions for it!"
"It is my misfortune - and probably my delight - to use things as my passions tell me…
… And some things are much better than others; like, once you start ramming a banana up your ass you never lose the taste for it…
What a miserable fate for a painter who adores blondes to have to stop himself putting them into a picture because they don't go with the basket of fruit!...
… But what an even more bitter fate when a painter who adores fruit has to stop putting baskets of them up her ass because his blonde mistress hates that done to her!...
I put all the things I like into my pictures…
… especially bulls. I've always dreamed of stuffing my anus with one of those...
The things - so much the worse for them. They just have to put up with it…
… After all, who cares what a baseball bat thinks if you shove it all the way up? If you paid for it - it’s yours! And those blonde whores? If they dare complain I ram a couple of things up their smelly asses, too!... Things… Oh, how I love putting things everywhere…"
"I am only a public clown…
… the sort of hateful, jealous, evil, and sinister clown dwarf, perhaps, but a midget clown nonetheless."
"Action is the foundational key to all success…
… And I keep telling that to my 278 year-old penis, but sometimes it's just no use, goddamn it!"
"Ah, good taste! What a dreadful thing! Taste is the enemy of creativeness…
… And you know very well what the Great Picasso does to his enemies… Ever been in a Thai prison?... Actually, hang on. I've already killed good taste. Next on the list? Common-sense! Got to destroy that, as well… My comrades are gonna help in that too."
"The chief enemy of creativity is 'good' sense…
... and by creativity I of course mean pseudo-artistic horseshit, and people with good sense know and point out that I paint shit which hurts my fucking profits… I'm working on the destruction of common-sense, and when I finish with that, I'll get right on to good sense. Just give me time. I need time. And after that, I'll destroy half-sense too. I won't be satisfied until nonsense is all that's left in this pre-Utopian soon-to-be-Orwellian world."
"An idea is a point of departure and no more. As soon as you elaborate it, it becomes transformed by thought…
… Listen here, you said you wanted a genius quote and I got you one. If you're unhappy because it's confusing - then tough luck! No, no, no… You paid me for that quote. No refunds at the Picasso mansion, pal. If you want another one, dish out another $300 and hand it to my agent."
"Colors, like features, follow the changes of the emotions…
… Don't like that one, either? Your problem. If you think that Gandhi or Che can give you two better quotes for $600, then think again. They charge at least twice what I charge!"
"Success is dangerous. One begins to copy oneself, and to copy oneself is more dangerous than to copy others. It leads to sterility…
… which is why I did 100s of ten-second scribbles of pigeons, because I wanted to avoid copying myself... Another concrete example, so you don't think this is just more meaningless Andalusian drivel: once, I saw Degas masturbate with a shovel. This ended by hitting himself over the tip of his penis with it, resulting in a mess greater than all of his works combined. I copied this act and ended up sterile. How this proves that to copy oneself is more dangerous than to copy others, I don't know… Perhaps I ought to change my mind on that one?... Yes, that's what I'll do: 'to copy someone else is more dangerous than to copy oneself', because if I were to copy my own act of smashing my genitals with a shovel I couldn't get sterile again, right…? God, I'm so smart."
"Every act of creation is first an act of destruction...
… First you gotta ruin a perfectly clean canvas with a couple of bizarrely pointless strokes."
"Every positive value has its price in negative terms... the genius of Einstein leads to Hiroshima...
… The genius of Jesus Christ leads to the Inquisition… The genius of Wagner leads to Nazism… The genius of the Great Picasso leads to… nope. Sorry. Pablo's perfect."
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| The genius of Ayrton Senna leads to a protracted court case. |
"Art is the elimination of the unnecessary…
… Which means that in Degas's case, none of his works would exist if he applied that rule 100%. I, on the other hand, don't have that problem; nothing that I ever drew or painted was unnecessary. I don't waste my time on unnecessary detail, such as to try and draw the person in the picture or to show the landscape that I am supposedly portraying. A couple of strokes is sometimes all that is needed, all that is essentially necessary for a work to appeal to fans of my later works. Give them a tree and they'll say, "so what…?". But give them a hint of a tree, and they'll say, 'hmm, is that tree or a dog, hmm… perhaps a rocket… This is fascinating! Let's talk for weeks about the philosophical ramifications of this post-existentialist work of neo-modern surreptitiousness'…"
"Everything you can imagine is real…
… I imagine a putana and then get a hard-on. Without imagination masturbation is history."
"He can who thinks he can, and he can't who thinks he can't. This is an inexorable, indisputable law...
… If there is anything a God never lacks it's over-confidence."
"I do not seek. I find…
… I do not smell. I reek. I do not kill. I torture. And… Wait, there are a couple more…: I do not wank. I pay a whore. I do not draw. I scribble. I do not paint. I stick a brush up my ass and lie on the canvas for a nap. And miracle! A few hours later a masterpiece is created!"
"I don't believe in accidents. There are only encounters in history. There are no accidents…
… Is it an accident that I bumped into Satan in a Masonic ritual and sold my soul to him? In our masses I am known as Fausto Picasso."
"Accidents, try to change them - it's impossible…
… unless you're a god. I once ran over a mother and a child which was an accident (though I admit I enjoyed it for a moment) but the god that I am I changed all of that: now it's as though the accident never happened. The Malagan chief of police is a Free Mason, too…
The accidental reveals man…
… swiftly tearing off a sexy dress which reveals a woman! No joke. Once I was in the middle of an afternoon tea rape and suddenly my wife barges into my study without knocking with some of her friends and they see me gently fondling the woman's accidentally bloodied thighs. Incidentally, the woman was related to the mother and kid I ran over…"
"I paint objects as I think them, not as I see them...
and that would take too much time, effort and talent. I'm short on those. And my thoughts are brief and simple, so that saves even more time."
"I who have been involved with all styles of painting can assure you that the only things that fluctuate are the waves of fashion which carry the snobs and speculators…
… But if I had to choose between those two, I'd take the snobs: they pay more money for my crap than the speculators. Of course, neither the snobs nor the speculators can hold a candle to the cretins, who are perhaps my best customers. And yet, even cretins are zippo next to idiots. Idiots are wonderful! I can pee in their mouth and they'll sign checks and then ask for more."
"The number of true connoisseurs remains more or less the same…
… Namely one: me. I call it the me constant".
"I am always doing that which I cannot do, in order that I may learn how to do it...
… As is evident in nearly all of my work…"
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| Practice makes perfect... ... eventually... ... possibly. |
"I'd like to live as a poor man with lots of money...
… Because that's what all Commie hypocrites strive for. I wanna have my cake and eat it too. Also: I'd like to live as a saint and be a mass-murderer. Now that's a Marxist dream only few have lived! Che Guevara, Lenin, you lucky, lucky bastards…!"
"It is your work in life that is the ultimate seduction…
… Did I say "your" work? Sorry, I meant mine. Whenever I drop around those profound musings I speak of myself."
"Never permit a dichotomy to rule your life, a dichotomy in which you hate what you do so you can have pleasure in your spare time. Look for a situation in which your work will give you as much happiness as your spare time...
… Even if you work in a gulag for your fatherland. Find joy in breaking rocks, digging graves for dead friends, and dying a slow, degrading death. Enjoy it. Avoid dichotomy. Don't let the 5 minutes of your spare time be so much better than the other 23 hours and 55 minutes of incessant slave labour."
"Now there is fame! Of all - hunger, misery, the incomprehension by the public - fame is by far the worst. It is the castigation of God by the artist. It is sad. It is true...
… Oh, the pain of success! I loathe it as much as if someone severed off my limbs! The awful prison I inhabit of being respected, loved, envied and adored!... I'd trade it all in a sec for a nice, cozy concentration camp where I could suffer and be tortured as all true artists are. I would gladly stop painting and scribbling to be anonymous again, but who could possibly forget the Great Pablo Picasso? Alas, I am cursed with these billions of pesos, the nice villas, hundreds of willing whores who cater to my every perverted suggestion, and then we have all those adoring fans who misjudge my every move for the move of a god. Sure, I am a god, but not everything I do is perfect...
Pablo is exercising some modesty, for a change: do you like it?"
"Often while reading a book one feels that the author would have preferred to paint rather than write; one can sense the pleasure he derives from describing a landscape or a person, as if he were painting what he is saying, because deep in his heart he would have preferred to use brushes and colors...
… Hemingway told me as much. He says his vocabulary of 250 words just isn't sufficient to describe a 1000-word picture. It frustrates him."
"One does a whole painting for one peach and people think just the opposite - that particular peach is but a detail...
… But I suppose you can't blame them: my peaches sometimes look like tiny penguins."
"One must act in painting as in life…
… For example, in life when I get angry I throw oils at my pathetic, useless servants. I do the same with paintings…"
"Others have seen what is and asked why. I have seen what could be and asked why not...
… Just call me Pablo Nostrapicasmus."
"Our goals can only be reached through a vehicle of a plan, in which we must fervently believe, and upon which we must vigorously act. There is no other route to success…
… Marxist Russia – perfect example. A fanatical belief which lead to vigorous prosecution of all unruly proletariat, which quickly developed into successful all-encompassing enslavement and establishment of gulags. The end goal justifies the means, especially if they are fun, sadistic means. To kill but a few proletarian rebels, what joy that would bring me..."
"Sculpture is the best comment that a painter can make on painting...
… Whenever I see a painting I shout: 'Sculpture!' It freaks them out. It's wonderful being a God, messing with their tiny heads. Of course, yelling 'sculpture' is the best comment because it elicits the funniest reaction. Another good comment is 'Bullshit!'. I use that one when I'm in Degas's exhibitions."
"Sculpture is the art of the intelligence…
… which is why I prefer paintings."
"The hidden harmony is better than the obvious...
… Listen, I'm a bit smashed, so anything I say now may not make a whole lot of sense… The hidden harmonica is better than the obvious: that's what I meant to say…! Call a cab…"
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Just don't get an abstract cab; they are sort of unstable… they tend to veer to the side, randomly. |
"To draw you must close your eyes and sing…
… Or you can open your eyes and sing, but then you might mistakenly not end up with an abstract piece (of shit)."
"The people who make art their business are mostly impostors…
… Commercialization of art? Despicable! Don't those dummies know I control the art market?! Those fucking impostors keep intruding into my territory without so much as a 'please' or a 'thank you'! Why don’t they go into prostitution like my dad and granddad?... And that's why I included the word mostly into the quote coz those of us called Pablo Picasso who make art their cash-making business are clearly not impostors but the divine benefactors of modern art."
"You mustn't always believe what I say. Questions tempt you to tell lies, particularly when there is no answer…
… But ignore the thing I just said. It's a lie. Yet another one."
"The path to youth takes a whole life…
… Sorry, drunk again… I meant, 'the path to youth takes a whore wife'."
"I don't own of my own paintings because a Picasso original costs several thousand dollars and that's a luxury I cannot afford…
… I made a funny! Ha-ha-ha! You want more?... I don't care about the suffering of others in the gulags because they are paving the way for a Utopia from which I will benefit. Hilarious, isn't it?... I've got so many!"
"Computers are useless. They can only give you answers…
… Me? I ask questions: Do you actually like rubbish? If you like it, would you buy this piece of crap for 3 million dollars? Do you pay cash or with master card? Are you an idiot?"
"To finish a work? To finish a picture? What nonsense! To finish it means to be through with it, to kill it, to rid it of its soul, to give it its final blow the coup de grace for the painter as well as for the picture...
… Finish a painting??? What baloney! I'll do three or four brush strokes - max! And then it's off to the next painting or drawing or scribble. Wouldn't want to destroy its soul, of course. Plus, it saves time…"
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| A coup-de-graced picture. DOA. |
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| A piece of art with its soul still intact. |
"As an artist, all I need is my paints and brushes - and someone to drag me away when the canvas is done…
... which completely contradicts what I said about paintings best being left incomplete...
But speaking of being dragged away by force... As a super-stud stallion, all that I need is my penis and my cajones – and someone to drag the putana away from my house after I'm done coming onto her face. Because otherwise I am liable to shoot her in the head the way Phil Sphincter did, that famous music producer who kills putas for fun."
"What is a face, really? Its own photo? Its make-up? Or is it a face as painted by such or such painter? That which is in front? Inside? Behind? And the rest? Doesn't everyone look at himself in his own particular way? Deformations simply do not exist…
… And it's the exact same with breasts. Are there really two? Do they actually have nipples or do babies suck an illusion? Is that why some infants die early: no nipples?... Maybe breasts are a large penis and we're all gay? Deformations are an illusion. Am I deformed because I'm only 4 foot three? Why must I draw myself as I am? What's wrong with a self-portrait where I look like an athletic NBA player? And how about great art? Maybe it doesn't exist anymore? Maybe an artist looks like an artist but is merely a charlatan? Maybe Malagan assholes who draw bulls are talentless little midgets? Maybe reality is totally subjective - which is fine by me, as that would allow my ugly bullshit to continue being perceived as high art rather than the garbage it obviously is."
"All I have ever made was made for the present and in the hope that it will always remain in the present…
… Unfortunately, comrade Einstein explained to me that the present can't last much longer than a nanosecond. Take this moment… Whoops! It's gone. But I can still hope that it will remain in the present, in spite of a mountain of evidence that points to the contrary! Perhaps that is why I am a Marxist: I can hope for impossible things. I can hope that a Utopia devoid of Portuguese, Germans, Americans, Japanese, blacks, Latinos, Basques, and Pollacks can exist. A world devoid of poverty: 'cause everyone would be dead! Hence, even this very moment – as I pee into your glass of wine while we are doing this interview – will remain in the present always, because I can hope that it does. And whatever a God hopes for, he gets it…"
"It means nothing to me. I have no opinion about it, and I don't care...
… and I am talking of course about other people's art. It's crap. I hate it. It's dumb, and it's inferior. Did I mention it was pointless? But I won't tell you what I think about it… I really don't care. Let's talk about me again."
"What might be taken for a precocious genius is the genius of childhood. When the child grows up, it disappears without a trace. It may happen that this boy will become a real painter some day, or even a great painter. But then he will have to begin everything again, from zero…
… I am of course referring to little Jesus. God. Myself. For it is as that little baby Pablo I was already creating awesome art with my boogers curled up as round balls, ready to strike at anyone who dared defy me... I peed in a bucket and my urine was sold separately from the bucket at a staggering price of 5,000 pesos - already then! With the bucket my artwork cost 15,000 pesos.
It is common knowledge in Marxist theory that man is born perfect, as an infant, then is gradually corrupted by society as he devolves to the sad state of a useless adult... Except me, Lenin and comrades Che and Hemingway, naturally: we of course are all untouched by this biological/emotional/spiritual decline. We are artists, philosophers, executioners... gods in other words."
"When I die, it will be a shipwreck, and as when a huge ship sinks, many people all around will be sucked down with it...
… My accountants and agents will be the first to panic. And my wives, ex-wives, and children also when they realize I left them nothing. But that's all just hypothetical: I am immortal as all gods are. Did I mention I was 235 years old? I am practically Yoda. That would explain the height and the head… and my vast powers. I used to be 2 meters tall."
"When you start with a portrait and search for a pure form, a clear volume, through successive eliminations, you arrive inevitably at the egg. Likewise, starting with the egg and following the same process in reverse, one finishes with the portrait…
… That's a lesson to all you students of art out there: start with a vague sketch of an egg. Then add some more random brush strokes – and voila! Got yourself a portrait. Reversely, if you already have a portrait but want to turn it into an egg, just find the pure form, you know – a clear volume – and the egg will come by itself. You know, it's like the old Malagan saying: what came first, the portrait or the egg?..."
 |
Egg or portrait? You be the judge. |
"When you start with a portrait and try to find pure form by abstracting more and more, you must end up with an egg…
… which is another three-letter word for a dud. A piece of shit. No-one said profit had to be pretty…"
"Why do two colors, put one next to the other, sing? Can one really explain this? No. Just as one can never learn how to paint…
… Never. Not ever. I've been trying for centuries now, but to no avail. And those singing colours mock me with every failed attempt... But hey! I earn millions, so what should I care that I have so little talent... Put my wallet next to a thousand-dollar bill, and I sing!"
"We all know that art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth, at least the truth that is given to us to understand…
… And if you ask me what that means I'll deny I ever said it! It just sounds impressive, that's all. Look, I do abstract art and I'll do abstract quotes, too, if I want to, goddamn it!"
"God is really only another artist. He invented the giraffe, the elephant, and the cat. He has no real style, He just goes on trying other things...
… I am speaking from experience. I am He."
"Inspiration exists, but it has to find us working…
… but who wants to work? All work and no play makes Pablo a mean boy. So I prefer to throw just a few random brush-strokes at the canvas and end it right there."
"Work is a necessity for man…
… which is fine by me because I am God...
... Man invented the alarm clock…
… And when I find out which man that was I'll wring his neck like a thousand Caligulas!..."
"I have discovered photography…
… and now I find out to my dismay that Degas has discovered it years before me; he's got photographs of me with an egg…
Now I can kill myself…
… for if the world sees what I did to that egg they'll never eat an omelette again, and they'll blame me for it… On second thought, I might as well die: I am 345, I have achieved everything, and truth be told – I am God, hence…
I have nothing else to learn…
… except maybe how to do certain things to a giraffe's tail…"
"Museums are just a lot of lies, and the people who make art their business are mostly impostors. We have infected the pictures in museums with all our stupidities, all our mistakes, all our poverty of spirit. We have turned them into petty and ridiculous things…
… You know why I hate them this much? They offer my paintings to look at for free! No-one buys anything! It's preposterous! They should be charged at least 5,000 pesos just to get in!"
"Give me a museum and I'll fill it…
… with utter shit. I have at least 100,000 3-second drawings begging to have their deeper meanings philosophized over by people who love to waste money on garbage."
"No, painting is not made to decorate apartments. It's an offensive and defensive weapon against the enemy…
… which are architects and apartment blocks! Does that make sense to you?... My art decorates sewers best. And not just any old sewer. I've got Picassos hanging in just about every major Third World Sewer there is… And I'm thinking of going to morgues and selling my work there, too: they'd make nice decorations for corpses."
"Everyone wants to understand painting. Why is there no attempt to understand the song of the birds?
… Did you know that the Malaysian pigeon hums the words 'fuck off' in his sleep every 12 minutes? The Peruvian condor hates The Flight Of The Condor, sings it only with the text changed: 'If only I could find the asshole who wrote this song… I'd kill him off, oh poke both of his eyes out… I really wooouuuuld, oh yes I would' - but it all sounds like 'chirp chirp' to us. Did you know that the Malagan sparrow sings the Communist Internationale when held at gun-point? It's fascinating to watch…"
"Youth has no age…
… And age has no youth. Especially old age."
"It takes a long time to become young…
… Oh, how I longed for these careless teenage 90s… To drool and suck milk… It wasn't easy leaving the womb as a decrepit old scarecrow."
"Age only matters when one is ageing. Now that I have arrived at a great age, I might just as well be twenty…
… thousand years old… And that's how I feel: 20,000 years old. My penis is dead, for one. You could send me into space and I could unzipp my pants and let it dangle in the freezing vacuum, and I wouldn't feel a thing! Old age sucks!"
"The older you get the stronger the wind gets - and it's always in your face...
… But that's only if you stay with the same woman for 55 years, and she grows old and starts ejecting monster farts – right in your face. My father had that and that's why his face was red. It wasn't the sun."
"When they tell me I'm too old to do something, I attempt it immediately…
… Like the time they told me I was too old to paint on the butt of a fat woman while running a marathon while fucking a virgin at the same time and shooting little children in their knees. Who could resist such a challenge???"
"Love is the greatest refreshment in life…
… but only if you're an idiot. If love is a refreshment, then the Dark Side is the hammer that crushes it like a soft orange ready for slaughter."
"The world today doesn't make sense, so why should I paint pictures that do?...
... The world made so much more sense in the Middle Ages: peasants were flogged, everyone else enslaved, the Earth was flat, while artist were treated as royalty on the highest courts of Europe. Of course, the world soon will make a lot more sense, what with the advances of Soviet troops into new territories, and the soon-to-be-created Utopia where everyone will dress the same and buy my art. When that happens I might go back to creating art that makes sense… Then again, why bother? I have worked for so long to train those dumb monkeys to appreciate abstract crap, think I'm gonna give up on it that easily?"
"One never knows what one is going to do. One starts a painting and then it becomes something quite different…
… than what one expects. Which is why you need two. Two always know what is going on and when two start a painting they get exactly what the two of them expected. Except that I hate doubles: never play them even in tennis. Plus, I'd rather be that one who starts with a blank canvas, the one who smears it a few times with a couple of random strokes, and then the one who gets totally surprised by the outcome that one never expects. It never ceases to amaze one to see how crap it turns out. And every time it's worse than the previous art one did! I just adore the upward-spiraling ugliness (i.e. downward-spiraling beauty) that one's art keeps devolving into!"
"If one knows exactly what is going to be done, why do it?...
… But, of course, one never does know what one will do, because one is so much smarter than two. Two is an idiot - I mean idiots. They are idiots and I am the smart one one. If you add two and one you get three which is an odd number just like one, meaning that one always beats two. And when you subtract one from two you get one. Of course, if you multiply one with two you get two – but that is only provisional because in art (as everyone knows) multiplication is immediately followed by taking the root, which – as comrade Einstein assures me – gives a number smaller than 1.5 which means it gets rounded off to one. There is only one. One God. And I am He. Just how often do I have to repeat the obvious?!"
"You do something, and then somebody else comes along and does it pretty…
… which ruins it totally. My first reaction is to smash a heavy chair over their heads – but then I remember: it's rather dumb to do something pretty. (Besides, I can't even lift a small chair.) Do they really think they'll shake my throne by doing pretty things? Those fools. Proper art is dead. Long live crap! Viva la Revolucion!!!"
"The beautiful doesn't matter to me…
… except when it's a beautifully staged public mass execution. And no-one does it better than the Chinese…"
"There is no abstract art. You must always start with something. Afterward you can remove all traces of reality…
… It's the same with corpses of art critics. There is no invisible, abstract art critic's corpse. You must always start with a broom and some sponges. Afterward, using other stuff like cloths and your hush-hush servants, you can remove all traces of the art critic's corpse…"
"Everything is a miracle. It is a miracle that one does not dissolve in one's bath like a lump of sugar…
… I recall the time we had one dead art critic placed in the bathtub. He dissolved in less than three minutes! The miracles of chemistry..."
"It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child…
… Sneaking into nearby kindergartens every single morning - for 75 years – to learn the tools of the trade and raid their invaluable art would have exhausted any genius. Age-related degradation of my motor skills, the decay of my eye-sight, and an increasingly child-like mind certainly help, too."
 |
| Raphael |
 |
| Child. |
"Bad artists copy. Good artists steal…
… A bad artist will go to the kindergarten and then go home and try to reproduce the children's high Art. I always considered stealing kids' art far more efficient and profitable. Why waste time doing copies? Half of the shit that desecrates the walls of museums are not mine but various scribbles by young children."
"Painting is a blind man's profession. He paints not what he sees, but what he feels, what he tells himself about what he has seen…
… It is for this reason that I do all my best work blind-folded. And I don't want to boast, but I think it's obvious! Genius!...
By the way, years ago I had the KGB kill all blind artists. I think they had an unfair advantage over me. I can't compete under such conditions."
"The first thing to do in life is to do with purpose what one purposes to do…
… which you must admit is very clever play with words! We gods have so much up our sleeves. You want another one?... 'The last thing to do in life is to axe the person you always wanted to hurt with an axe'. Clever, ha?... Verb - noun. Verb - noun… I got more…: 'The first thing to do in death is say, 'Satan, it's been a long wait but I'm finally yours to sexually please me as you please'.' Good, innit…? Two verbs this time, a bit of a departure… More? Glad to oblige: 'the first thing you do with a virgin putana is to do with mercy that which you otherwise do mercilessly'… Noun-antonym. Noun-antonym, with the latter built from the original noun! Such fun to be wise!"
"Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe, a moment that will never be again…
… which is a shame. I'd love to freeze every moment when I forced a putana to do anal, kicked a beggar, laughed at a child, seen an American soldier die, sold a piece of crap for millions… Life ain't fair. There is no justice in the world."
"Basically the French are all peasants…
… which means that my children are half-peasants, if my math is right. They are half-French, half-wetbags. No wonder I hate them… And that French mother of theirs…: if there ever was a titless hedonistic whore whom I painted and then wanted to smash the painting on her empty head, it's her."
"What do we teach our children? We teach them that two and two make four, and that Paris is the capital of France…
… which is only half-right, because Paris is the capital of France only when I am there. Useless stuff like that. We should teach them death and destruction, pain and torture, and then send them with this knowledge to America on a rampage…
When will we also teach [children] what they are? We should say to each of them: Do you know what you are? You are a marvel. You are unique…
… and you're a sniveling little fucker if you don't hand over that nice little drawing you just made. Alright, alright, don't cry… Will 5 pesetas do?... Look, if you don't sell it, I'll steal it. Your choice… You may be unique, but that doesn't protect you from theft…
In all the years that have passed, there has never been another child like you. Your legs, your arms, your clever fingers, the way you move…
… the way you carry heavy objects and swing the shovel: you will be so useful in the gulags…
You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven. You have the capacity for anything…
… But that's not all! You may even become a Stalin, a Mao, a Pol Pot, or an Idi Amin. But why? We've already got these great men. We need hard workers for the mines…
Yes, you are a marvel. And when you grow up, can you then harm another who is, like you, a marvel?...
… Sure you can! Pain is fun. And eliminating your rivals is the essence of the Dark Side…You must work, we must all work, to make the world worthy of its children…… We've got to build more gulags! Some of the little marvels are already 8 and we still only have 120 in Russia!..."
"My mother said to me, "If you are a soldier, you will become a general. If you are a monk, you will become the Pope." Instead, I was a painter, and became Picasso…
… And then God. My Mom, the Virgin Mary Y Picasso, believed in me from the get-go."
"When you come right down to it all you have is yourself…
… While I, the Picasso itself, have myself, the grandest of all creations – nay the Creator Himself - plus I have whores, fame, money, respect, villas, yachts, and a permanent membership in the local Free Mason club. Do yourself a favour and lodge a bullet in that useless, lonely head of yours. But before you do, spend your money on one of my child-like masterpieces…"
"I hate that aesthetic game of the eye and the mind, played by these connoisseurs…
… The aesthetic game sucks. The only games I ever really enjoyed were Monopoly and Hide-And-Seek… You wanna play games of the eye and mind - go study physics or chemistry, those useless turds for capitalist wankers. I prefer a good ol' game of mouth and pussy! And what is a 'connoisseur' anyway? I've been in Paris half my life and still don't get half of those damn slippery words they use over there! I hope it means 'asshole' 'cause that's how I meant it. These aesthetic-game-loving eye-and-mind homo assholes are like over-ripe oranges and apples – useless. I hate…
these mandarins who 'appreciate' beauty. What is beauty, anyway?...
… What is a sky? Is it up or down? What is a tree? Does it sing or does it sit still? Is beauty a plant or an animal? A chair perhaps? My wrinkly 300 year-old penis? I mean, really!... Beauty?...
There's no such thing. I never 'appreciate', any more than I 'like'. I love or I hate…
… I guess that's how we are, us passionate dagos… There's no middle road for us: we either get it or we don't, fuck it or kill it, sleep or sleep later…"
"The sun is a thousand rays in your belly. All the rest is nothing…
… that you should concern yourself with when it comes to astronomy. Apart perhaps from: Pluto is five hundred gays in a rally. And, Neptune is a million lays with your Sally. Also: Saturn is a hundred days in your Nelly, Mars is three thousand Mays in your jelly…"
"Drink to me…
… because you won't find another fraud like this in a million years."
The hell paradox:
About moderation:
About infinity:
Equality & Racism:
UFOlogists:
Female masochism:
Reincarnation:
Picasso's Art Gallery:
Kurt Cobain's Quotes De-Quoted:
Noam Chomsky's Quotes De-Quoted:
