Welcome to my studio, for I am a painter, and moreover an outstanding one. In artistic circles, I am known as “le Douanier”. It was a calling that I once answered. An important job, if I may say so; though not of course as significant as the true source of my fame, my art.

I used to administer agricultural trade all around Paris from my bureau at the Auteuil Gate, ensuring that the farmers paid their taxes on produce for market. No, not a toll collector. I was rather more important than that. A Customs Officer, if you please.

I was born in 1844 in Laval, a small town to the north of here. My young life was ordinary but happy. I was educated at the Lycée, and naturally excelled, so that my services were sought by countless prospective employers. I tried the Law, but found it uninspiring, and so in 1863 I joined the army and travelled the world in the service of my country.

Ah. So you have heard the wicked tale that I never left France. Do not believe it. I distinguished myself abroad, most notably in Mexico, where I encountered the lions and tigers that would later inform my canvasses.

Are you surprised that you find me so reduced, in this little attic? Do not be deceived. It’s true that I have endured some misfortune in life : both my wives are dead, and just one of my nine beloved children yet survives. It’s a fact, also, that I had a little more money until last summer, when the magistrate in his wisdom decided for the usurers.

Nonetheless, in this year of 1910, I shall attain the distinguished and considerable age of sixty-six years. I remain in reasonable health and good temperament. I have as much food as I need, and if ever hunger should gnaw at me then I can always supplement my income with my violin, which still brings me public acclaim whenever I play it on the street.

But it is surely not these lesser talents, but rather my painting that you have come to learn about. Let me tell you the tale.

I knew that I was a gifted exponent of the brush even at a young age. Throughout my youth, I made very many fine works that the populace will unfortunately never enjoy, all because my commitment to my vocation was so exemplary. In my forty-ninth year, however, I realised that I must retire from my former profession in order to fulfil my artistic gift.

I applied for the Permit, a much sought-after document which grants the bearer the right to make close studies and copies of the collections of the Musées de Paris. I am pleased to say that my potential was recognised, so that the requisite status was granted to me.

Very quickly, I made notable use of it. In 1885 I exhibited for the first time at the Salon des Champs, and in every subsequent year to the present day in the Salon des Indépendants¹.

Ah. You ask why I have never exhibited in the Salon des Artistes Français. Do you perhaps consider that one to be the true Salon? You are quite wrong. That institution is frigid with the notions of posturing academics, with no regard for the method of the self-made artist. I am proud to proclaim myself an Independent, and in the vanguard of the novel movement.

In 1891, I made my first truly great work. I called it “Surprised!”² and it depicts a tropical storm, and a terror-stricken tiger. Here is a facsimile. Wonderful, isn’t it?

They call my style “naïve” or “primitive”. I do not count it an insult. Many of their disparagements are compliments in my interpretation, because my critics are forced to acknowledge the simplicity and perspicacity of my vision.

I execute my paintings one colour at a time. Upon a basic pencil composition, I render all the blues and greens, then next all the reds and browns, then all the lesser hues. I work from top to bottom, and I do this always. I favour order, and thus achieve a characteristic style, one which projects my thoughts with great clarity.

I do not brood over my paintings, nor work into them any vain secrets. I announce what I observe, with straightforward confidence. In many of them, I reveal the barbarity of nature. No matter if I shock, for this is what I see, and I am the artist.

This one here is the “Boy on the Rocks”³. I painted it over a long period, of almost three years beginning in 1895. Does it cause you disquiet? Those who denounce my work declare that this is not a boy, that these are not rocks, that rules of proportion, perspective and even gravity are flouted. I do not care. The onlooker is fascinated still. Whether amused or horrified, he is yet captured by my power.

You would see more of my paintings? I value your admiration, but I have learned in my long life to be on my guard against vanity. I will show you just two more, and beg that you be satisfied.

This one was painted in 1897, and it depicts the “Sleeping Gypsy”⁴, oblivious to the menaces of the lion. A desert in moonlight makes a mysterious scene. You must assign your own significance to what you find here. The lion, touching. The mandolin, misplaced. I shall not justify my picture, since defencelessness is its point.

Have you heard of my greatest triumph? No, it was not a painting. It was (and is) the adoration of my fellow painters. Two years ago, Mr Picasso arranged a great banquet in my honour, and it was held in his studio. Every artist in Paris turned out, or so it seemed. They set me high upon a throne, elevated above the company, and they cheered my playing of the violin, and they lauded me and toasted me until dawn.

At the end, I took my host to one side, and I thanked him and acknowledged his own considerable talent, which I hold in esteem. "My dear Picasso," I said, "we are the two greatest painters of our time : you in the Egyptian style and I in the modern style."

Now where is my handkerchief? Please do not think me foolish and sentimental. I am sometimes a little overcome when I think of the happiness of my life.

Perhaps this is what provokes the tears. This is my most recent work. I call it “The Dream”⁵, and I have returned to my jungle, where my expression blossoms among its exquisite flora. Even now that it is finished, this painting induces great emotion, because I found its inspiration in the drawing-books of my dear, dead daughter, and in the stirring memories of my intrepid youth.

No, I’m afraid that this painting is not for sale. Monsieur Vollard has bought it already, along with others. He was kind enough to leave it with me, so that I could make it my offering at this year’s Indépendants. It was a decent gesture, to pay me in advance, but that was some months ago now. It’s certainly time that I painted some new ones. Perhaps you can return in a few weeks, when more will be ready? Would another jungle scene be to your liking?

Ah. You have noticed the bandages about my leg. Yes, the wound is sore, and I am a little disturbed by its colour. Today I thought I detected a slight odour, which surely means that I should take myself to a physician. Those gentlemen’s fees are so dear, though. When I finish and sell more paintings, I must get it sorted out…

André Breton

42 Rue Fontaine

December 1925