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And then I awoke and yet continued to dream… painting constantly appeared to me as the one and only possible achievement. I thought of my grand old f… - Max Beckmann
" "And then I awoke and yet continued to dream… painting constantly appeared to me as the one and only possible achievement. I thought of my grand old friend Henri Rousseau [French Primitive painter, died in 1910] that Homer in the porter's lodge whose prehistoric dreams have sometimes brought me near the gods. I saluted him in my dream. Near him I saw William Blake, noble emanation of English genius.. .'Have confidence in your objects,' he said, 'do not let yourself be intimidated by the horror of the world. Everything is ordered and correct and must fulfill its destiny in order to attain perfection. Seek this path'.. .I awoke and found myself in Holland in the midst of boundless world turmoil. But my belief in the final release and absolution of all things, whether they please or torment, was newly strengthened. Peacefully I laid my head among the pillows... to sleep, and dream, again.
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About Max Beckmann
Max Beckmann (February 12, 1884 – December 28, 1950) was a German painter and print-maker. Although he is classified as an Expressionist artist, he rejected both the term and the movement. In the 1920s Beckmann was temporarily and wrongly associated with German New Objectivity (Neue Sachlichkeit).
Also Known As
Alternative Names:
Max Beckman
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Max Carl Friedrich Beckmann
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m. beckmann
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Beckmann
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Additional quotes by Max Beckmann
It is, of course, a luxury to create art and, on top of this, to insist on expressing one's own artistic opinion. Nothing is more luxurious than this. It is a game and a good game, at least for me; one of the few games which make life, difficult and depressing as it is sometimes, a little more interesting.
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The trenches wound in meandering lines and white faces peered from dark dugouts – a lot of men were still preparing the positions, and everywhere among them there were graves. Where they sat, beside their dugouts, even between the sandbags, crosses stuck out. Corpses jammed in among them. It sounds like fiction – one man was frying potatoes on a grave next to his dugout. The existence of life here had already become a paradoxical joke.
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