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

 One shouldn’t be only two photographers but thousands. 
 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. 
 Photography is a magic thing. A thing that has mysterious odors, a little strange and frightening, something one quickly grows to love. 
 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. 
 I have two pairs of eyes—one to paint, and one to take photographs. There is little relationship between the two. 
 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. 
 Photography and writing are marvelous distractions from painting. I might even have found movies more interesting than photography. I tried it a bit, but not enough. 
 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. 
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