In The Brush Doing What It Is

In The End I Realize That Whatever Meaning That Picture Has Is The Accumulated Meaning Of Ten Thousand Brushstrokes, Each One Being Decided As It Was Painted.

For Twenty Years I Read A Book A Day, From The Time I Was Seven Until I Was Twenty-seven.

It Is The Medium, Or The Specific Configuration Of The Medium, That We Call A Work Of Art That Brings Feeling Into Being.

The 'pure' Red Of Which Certain Abstractionists Speak Does Not Exist. Any Red Is Rooted In Blood, Glass, Wine, Hunters' Caps And A Thousand Other Concrete Phenomena. Otherwise We Would Have No Feeling Toward Red And Its Relations.

It May Be That The Deep Necessity Of Art Is The Examination Of Individual's And Society's Self-deception.