Jacques-Henri Lartigue
[Photographer, b. 1894, Courbevoie, France, d. 1986, Nice, France.]
One shouldn’t be only two photographers but thousands.
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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.
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Photography is a magic thing. A thing that has mysterious odors, a little strange and frightening, something one quickly grows to love.
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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.
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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.
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I have two pairs of eyes—one to paint, and one to take photographs. There is little relationship between the two.
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I think just about everything has been tackled, but it may be that things will be done again, only better and differently.
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Robert, Zissou and Louis are too big and I am too small. Most of the time they won’t let me play with them; I have to be a spectator.
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