Portraits are to daily faces As an Evening West, To a fine, pedantic sunshine — In a satin Vest!
I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the wren; and my hair is bold, like the chestnut burr; and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves.
And painted portraits have a life of their own that comes from deep in the soul of the painter and where the machine can’t go.[En de geschilderde portretten hebben een eigen leven dat radicaal uit de ziel van den schilder komt en waar de machine niet aan kan.]
