An artist who stands haughtily aloof from his time, basing his whole aesthetic posture on that stance, is exposing himself to the danger that the future may pass him by. … The most, and least, an artist can do for posterity is to acknowledge that his demise will in no way differ from that of a billion other men, and prove that he has been able to take creative account of that grim, miraculous fact. If he can do that, then maybe his creations will live up to the one dream which appears to set man apart from other creatures on earth, and by doing so he can provide his fellow men with a few noble instants of the surcease from the contemplation of their own nonentity. This, perhaps, is too somber and idealistic a view of the artist’s option, in which case it would leave ample room for the possibility that the future may do well by a bid for its attention by one who showed little confidence in its discrimination. Admirers of Balthus will hope so, and it is true that their hopes are not based on bluff. The nobleman may be bogus, though indispensable, but the artist is real. His reality is even greater than his identity, and he is bound to an involvement with it so passionate that the outcome goes beyond the personal. Greatness always starts that way. How far it can go, only time, and death, will tell.

– James Lord, Some Remarkable Men: Further Memoirs, op. cit., p. 189