There are certain clubs here and in Paris where people just watch other people fuck. 

 I’m not at all interested in death. I’m not preoccupied by death. My wife, June, once said, “Helmut, Don’t you want to discuss this subject?” And I said, “It doesn’t interest me. I don’t want to discuss, it’s a waste of time.” 

 I was a contributor for Playboy for about twenty years. My work was even too risky for Playboy. They asked me—“Please do something for us, but nothing as kinky as what you do for French Vogue.” 

 The point of my photography has always been to challenge myself, to go a little further than my Germanic discipline and Teutonic nature would traditionally permit me to. 

 If I have really nothing to do, I start spinning a tale for myself, which is one of the most pleasant ways of spending time. My pictures are like a story that has no beginning, no middle, and no end. 

 I might photograph myself fucking, but I wouldn’t exhibit it. A picture that I find most amusing is one that June took of me pissing, en contrejour, I’m looking around at the camera. It’s taken in the backyard in Ramatuelle, it’s evening, very romantic, and you see this stream of piss and the sun shining through. 

 In 1936 I arranged to have myself thrown out of school as a hopeless pupil. I wanted to be a paparazzo.