Duchamp, who once told William Copley that he had “developed parasitism to a fine art,” was still living on practically nothing then. The rent on his 14th Street studio was still only thirty five dollars a month. He owned one suit, which he brushed and cleaned himself. When he went to spend a weekend with Teeny in Lebanon or Teeny’s friend’s house in Easthampton, where they were often invited during the summer months, he never took a suitcase. He would wear two shirts, one on top of the other, and carry a toothbrush in his jacket pocket.
"The more I live among artists, the more I am convinced that they are fakes from the minute they get to be successful in the smallest way. This means also that all the dogs around the artists are crooks. If you see the combination of fakes and crooks how have you been able to keep some kind of faith (and in what?) Don’t name a few exceptions to justify a milder opinion about the whole “art game”. In the end, a painting is declared good only if it is worth “so much.” It may even be accepted by the “holy” museums. So much for posterity… This will give you an idea of the kind of mood I am in – stirring up the old ideas of disgust. But it is only on account of you. I have lost so much interest (all) in the question that I don’t suffer from it. You still do."
"I wanted the idea to grip the mind of the viewer like a woman's vagina grips a cock."
