I put down the brush for one week and suddenly everyone thinks they invented color. Relax, it’s still my house. by Henri Matisse

Your house? Henri, you spent half your career trying to cut your way out of one.

And yet you’re all still standing in the room I made look expensive.

Say what you want, Pablo, but I made the color loud enough for your ego to hear it.

You make one cut-out and suddenly you’re a tailor with opinions.

Both of you are unbearable. The paint is fighting for its life in here.