It's wonderful, elegant taste. It's a beautiful collection of American, 19th-century and Impressionist art.

One picks one's way about through the glass and aluminum doors, the receptionists' smiles, the lunches with too much alcohol, the openings with more, the mobs of people desperately trying to define good taste in such loud voices one can hardly hear oneself giggle, while the shebang is lit by flashes and flares through the paint-stained window, glimmers under the police-locked door, or, if one is taking a rare walk outside that day, by a light suffusing the whole sky, complex as the northern aurora.

Basically, I viewed any work of art as an imposition of another person's taste, and saw the individual making this imposition as a kind of dictator.

A photographer without a magazine behind him is like a farmer without fields.

Art is not for the cultivated taste. It is to cultivate taste.

It is good taste, and good taste alone, that possesses the power to sterilize and is always the first handicap to any creative functioning