It Is The Spectators Who Make The

In My Day Artists Wanted To Be Outcasts, Pariahs. Now They Are All Integrated Into Society

As Soon As We Start Putting Our Thoughts Into Words And Sentences Everything Gets Distorted, Language Is Just No Damn Good—i Use It Because I Have To, But I Don’t Put Any Trust In It. We Never Understand Each Other.

Art Has The Lovely Habit Of Ruining All Artistic Theories.

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. If We Give The Attributes Of A Medium To The Artist, We Must Then Deny Him The State Of Consciousness On The Aesthetic Plane About What He Is Doing Or Why He Is Doing It. All This Decisions In The Artistic Execution Of The Work Rest With Pure Intuition And Cannot Be Translated Into A Self-analysis, Spoken Or Written, Or Even Thought Out.

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