Art Has The Lovely Habit Of Ruining

Art Has Absolutely No Existence As Veracity, As Truth.

It Is The Spectators Who Make The Pictures.

The Life Of An Artist Is Like The Life Of A Monk, A Lewd Monk If You Like, Very Rabelaisian. It Is An Ordination.

To All Appearances, The Artist Acts Like A Mediumistic Being Who, From The Labyrinth Beyond Time And Space, Seeks His Way Out To A Clearing.

An Abstract Painting Need In 50 Years By No Means Look "abstract" Any Longer.