Like People, A Picture Has A Skeleton,

I Paint In Order Not To Cry.

Everything Vanishes Around Me, And Works Are Born As If Out Of The Void. Ripe, Graphic Fruits Fall Off. My Hand Has Become The Obedient Instrument Of A Remote Will.

All Art Is A Memory Of Age-old Things, Dark Things, Whose Fragments Live On In The Artist.

The Worst State Of Affairs Is When Science Begins To Concern Itself With Art.

See With One Eye, Feel With The Other.