Color Is The Place Where Our Brain

A Single Day Is Enough To Make Us A Little Larger Or, Another Time, A Little Smaller.

Everything Passes, And What Remains Of Former Times, What Remains Of Life, Is The Spiritual. In Everything We Do, The Claim Of The Absolute Is Unchanging.

In Earlier Times Artists Liked To Show What Was Actually Visible... Nowadays We Are Concerned With Reality, Rather Than The Merely Visible.

All Is Well With Me. The Rain Doesn't Reach Me, My Room Is Well Heated, What More Can One Ask For? There's No Shortage Of Work, Either.

From The Root, The Sap Rises Up Into The Artist, Flows Through Him, Flows To His Eye. Overwhelmed And Activated By The Force Of The Current, He Conveys His Vision Into His Work. And Yet, Standing At His Appointed Place As The Trunk Of The Tree, He Does Nothing Other Than Gather And Pass On What Rises From The Depths. He Neither Serves Nor Commands He Transmits. His Position Is Humble. And The Beauty At The Crown Is Not His Own; It Has Merely Passed Through Him.