A Quote by Pablo Picasso

Are we to paint what's on the face, what's inside the face, or what's behind it? — © Pablo Picasso
Are we to paint what's on the face, what's inside the face, or what's behind it?
What is a face, really? Its own photo? Its make-up? Or is it a face as painted by such or such painter? That which is in front? Inside? Behind? And the rest? Doesn't everyone look at himself in his own particular way? Deformations simply do not exist.
Sometimes we have the absolute certainty there's something inside us that's so hideous and monstrous that if we ever search it out we won't be able to stand looking at it. But it's when we're willing to come face to face with that demon that we face the angel.
I hear poets complaining: 'We face what our forebears did not face. We face TV. We face radio. We face this and that.'
There's a Mr. Hyde for every happy Jekyll face, a dark face on the other side of the mirror. The brain behind that face never heard of razors, prayers, or the logic of the universe. You turn the mirror sideways and see your face reflected with a sinister left-hand twist, half mad and half sane.
I think I was driven to paint portraits to commit images of friends and family to memory. I have face blindness, and once a face is flattened out, I can remember it better.
I stood in this unsheltered place, 'til I could see the face behind the face.
The face you have at age 25 is the face God gave you, but the face you have after 50 is the face you earned.
You think you know someone by looking at his face but what can one face say about the thousand thoughts behind those eyes.
Before I go to bed I clean my face with a cleansing milk and cotton pads and then wash my face thoroughly with a foamy face wash. I apply a calamine lotion on my face and a medicated moisturizer on my face and neck. I repeat the same procedure after I wake up in the morning.
Just a look at the face of the officer kneeling on George Floyd's neck is indicative of the cause behind what he was doing. His face showed no concern.
The front door shut, leaving Alec sitting in the half-lit garden, alone. He closed his eyes for a moment, the image of a face hovering behind his lids. Not Jace's face, for a change. The eyes set in the face were green, slit-pupiled. Cat eyes.
I have never had a pair of knickers sent in the post. I've had jams, lemon drizzle cakes, West Ham football shirts and footballs and books. I've had pillowcases with my face on, tea towels with my face on, face flannels with my face on, towels with my face on.
Tatcha Face Moisture Mask and a facial by Nicola Joss, who literally massages your face from inside your mouth! Insane, right?
Just imagine living in a world without mirrors. You'd dream about your face and imagine it as an outer reflection of what is inside you. And then, when you reached forty, someone put a mirror before you for the first time in your life. Imagine your fright! You'd see the face of a stranger. And you'd know quite clearly what you are unable to grasp: your face is not you.
It all stems from the same thing - which is that when we are face to face - and this is what I think is so ironic about Facebook being called Facebook, because we are not face to face on Facebook ... when we are face to face, we are inhibited by the presence of the other. We are inhibited from aggression by the presence of another face, another person. We're aware that we're with a human being. On the Internet, we are disinhibited from taking into full account that we are in the presence of another human being.
Robert Pattinson has the face of a film-noir dupe. It's a face that is searching and open and kind. It's a face that a certain type of woman might want to fool because, in its intensely old-fashioned kindness, the face says, I love you. Fool me.
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