Brassaï (Gyula Halász)
[Photographer, b. 1889, Brassó, Transylvania, Hungary (now Romania), d. 1984, Eze, Alpes-Maritimes, France.]

 Surreality lies within ourselves, in objects that have become banal because we no longer see them, in the normality of the normal. 

Salvador Dali (Salvador Felipe Jacinto Dalí Domènech, Marquis of Pubol)
[Artist, b. 1904, Figueres, Catalonia, Spain, d. 1989, Figueres, Spain.]

 Nothing proves the truth of surrealism so much as photography. The Zeiss lens has unexpected faculties of surprise! 

Brassaï (Gyula Halász)
[Photographer, b. 1889, Brassó, Transylvania, Hungary (now Romania), d. 1984, Eze, Alpes-Maritimes, France.]

 The surrealism of my pictures was nothing but the real made eerie by vision. I was trying to express reality, for there is nothing more surrealist. 

Man Ray (Emanuel Radnitsky)
[Artist, b. 1890, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, d. 1976, Paris.]

 I would photograph an idea rather than an object, a dream rather than an idea. 

John Tagg
[Writer, theorist, and photohistorian, b. 1949, North Shields, England, lives in Ithica, New York.]

 I look at an image and it is flooded with a half-forgotten dream, bulking out its figures with the forms of desire, opening up its vistas to a physically sensed space and presence. 

Michelangelo Antonioni
[Filmmaker, b. 1912, Ferrara, Italy, d. 2007, Rome.]

 We know that under the revealed image there is another one which is more faithful to reality, and under this one is yet another, and again another under this last one, down to the true image of that absolute, mysterious reality that nobody will ever see. Or perhaps, not until the decomposition of every image, of every reality. 

André Breton
[Artist, writer, editor, and critic, b. 1896, Tinchebray, France, d. 1966, Paris, France.]

 Radios? Fine. Syphilis? If you like. Photography? I don’t see any reason why not. (Manifesto of Surrealism, 1924) 

W.G Sebald
[Writer, b. 1944, Bavaria, Germany, d. 2001, East Anglia, England.]

 In my photographic work I was always especially entranced... by the moment when the shadows of reality, so to speak, emerge out of nothing on the exposed paper, as memories do in the middle of the night, darkening again if you try to cling to them. 
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