Monday, November 30, 2015

gertrude stein

I love reading Mohammed Mrabet, Henry Miller, Gertrude Stein, and Blaise Cendrars...I simply do not think I've ever come across such brilliant writers again, writers blessed with such honesty, such self-revelations, such interesting mind-meanderings, such an abundance of love, with an understanding of art and its place in the world -a world filled with magical words, fantastic words, words dropped in the most unusual places, and conveying such a sense of wonderment...



I posed for him all winter, eighty times and in the end he painted out the head, he told me he could not look at me anymore and then he left once more for Spain.  It was the first time since the blue period and immediately upon returning he painted the head without having seen me again, and he gave me the picture and I was and still am satisfied with my portrait, for me, it is I and it is the only reproduction of me which is always I, for me.  -G Stein








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