They sit for hours on the ‘cafés’ warming their precious behinds, and talk without stopping about ‘culture’ ‘art’ ‘revolution’ and so on and so forth, thinking themselves the gods of the world, dreaming the most fantastic nonsenses, and poisoning the air with theories and theories that never come true.
Frida Kahlo, in a letter to her lover, the photographer Nickolas Muray, expressing her disdain for the members of the art scene in Paris.
Frida Kahlo, Paris, France letter to Nickolas Muray, New York, N.Y.
—Reminds me of my days in Berkeley. ~Nobody