Frames kill, Picasso said one day, they are mourning borders to bad news. Whenever, in some house or other, he saw a canvas of his framed, he generally felt ill at ease — like the canvas itself. It had been dressed up. It had been made to wear gloves. It had been married and wreathed. It was no longer painting as such, but had become the dining-room picture.

— Hélène Parmelin, Picasso Plain, 1963