A Work Of Art Comes Only From

What Is Art? Art Grows From Joy And Sorrow, But Mostly From Sorrow. It Grows From Human Lives.

From The Moment Of My Birth, The Angels Of Anxiety, Worry, And Death Stood At My Side, Followed Me Out When I Played, Followed Me In The Sun Of Springtime And In The Glories Of Summer. They Stood At My Side In The Evening When I Closed My Eyes, And Intimidated Me With Death, Hell, And Eternal Damnation.

It Is Better To Have A Good Painting With Ten Holes Than Ten Bad Paintings Without Any Holes.

I Was Walking Down The Road With Two Friends When The Sun Set; Suddenly, The Sky Turned As Red As Blood. I Stopped And Leaned Against The Fence, Feeling Unspeakably Tired. Tongues Of Fire And Blood Stretched Over The Bluish Black Fjord. My Friends Went On Walking, While I Lagged Behind, Shivering With Fear. Then I Heard The Enormous Infinite Scream Of Nature.

It Was Always My Intention That The Frieze Should Be Housed In A Room Which Would Provide A Suitable Architectural Frame For It.