Art Has Absolutely No Existence As Veracity,

There Is No Solution, For There Is No Problem.

Chess Can Be Described As The Movement Of Pieces Eating One Another.

In New York In 1915 I Bought At A Hardware Store A Snow Shovel On Which I Wrote In Advance Of The Broken Arm .

I Like Living, Breathing Better Than Working...my Art Is That Of Living. Each Second, Each Breath Is A Work Which Is Inscribed Nowhere, Which Is Neither Visual Nor Cerebral, It's A Sort Of Constant Euphoria.

What I Have In Mind Is That Art May Be Bad, Good Or Indifferent, But, Whatever Adjective Is Used, We Must Call It Art, And Bad Art Is Still Art In The Same Way That A Bad Emotion Is Still An Emotion.