All Art Is A Memory Of Age-old

Everything Vanishes Round Me And Good Works Rise From Me Of Their Own Accord.

The Beautiful, Which Is Perhaps Inseparable From Art, Is Not After All Tied To The Subject, But To The Pictorial Representation. In This Way And In No Other Does Art Overcome The Ugly Without Avoiding It.

My Mirror Probes Down To The Heart. I Write Words On The Forehead And Around The Corners Of The Mouth. My Human Faces Are Truer Than The Real Ones.

One Does Not Lash Hat Lies At A Distance. The Foibles That We Ridicule Must At Least Be A Little Bit Our Own. Only Then Will The Work Be A Part Of Our Own Flesh. The Garden Must Be Weeded.

The Creation Lives As Genesis Beneath The Visible Surface Of The Work. All Intelligent People See This After The Fact, But Only The Creative See It Before The Fact - In The Future.