Jacques-Henri Lartigue
[Photographer, b. 1894, Courbevoie, France, d. 1986, Nice, France.]

 To talk about photos rather than making them seems idiotic to me. It’s as though I went on and on about a woman I adored instead of making love to her. 
 One shouldn’t be only two photographers but thousands. 
 What’s so incredibly amusing with photography is that while seemingly an art of the surface, it catches things I haven’t even noticed. And it pains me not to have seen things in all their depth. 
 Photography is a magic thing. A thing that has mysterious odors, a little strange and frightening, something one quickly grows to love. 
 The golden rule is “work fast.” As for framing, composition, focus—this is no time to start asking yourself questions: you just have to trust your intuition and the sharpness of your reflexes. 
 I have two pairs of eyes—one to paint, and one to take photographs. There is little relationship between the two. 
 I take photographs with love, so I try to make them art objects. But I make them for myself first and foremost—that is important. If they are art objects at the same time, that’s fine with me. 
 Robert, Zissou and Louis are too big and I am too small. Most of the time they won’t let me play with them; I have to be a spectator. (Entry in childhood diary) 
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