But I do not paint these things which my eye sees. I paint that which my brain, my soul, sees. I walk from the Battery to Central Park. I mingle with your workers, and your Fifth Avenue mondaines. My brain gets the impression of each movement; there is the driving hurry of the former, their breathless haste to reach the place of their work in the morning and their equal haste to reach their homes at night. There is the languid grace of the latter, emanating a subtle perfume, a more subtle sensuousness.... Art, art, what is art? Is it copying faithfully a person’s face? A landscape? No, that’s machinery. Painting nature as she is is not art, it is mechanical genius. The old masters turned out by hand the most perfect models, the most faithful copies of what they saw. That all their paintings are not alike is due to the fact that no two men see the... (http://www.artnews.com/2016/11/18/francis-picabia-art-world-jailer-philip-pearlstein-on-one-of-the-prime-movers-of-modern-art-in-1970/)