Objects Damage Pictures.

The Artist Must Have Something To Say, For Mastery Over Form Is Not His Goal But Rather The Adapting Of Form To Its Inner Meaning.

With Cold Eyes And Indifferent Mind The Spectators Regard The Work. Connoissers Admire The "skill" (as One Admires A Tightrope Walker), Enjoy The "quality Of Painting" (as One Enjoys A Pasty). But Hungry Souls Go Hungry Away. The Vulgar Herd Stroll Through The Rooms And Pronounce The Pictures "nice" Or "splendid." Those Who Could Speak Have Said Nothing, Those Who Could Hear Have Heard Nothing.

The Work Of Art Is Born Of The Artist In A Mysterious And Secret Way. From Him It Gains Life And Being. Nor Is Its Existence Casual And Inconsequent, But It Has A Definite And Purposeful Strength, Alike In Its Material And Spiritual Life.

I Applied Streaks And Blobs Of Colors Onto The Canvas With A Palette Knife, And I Made Them Sing With All The Intensity I Could.

Objects Damage Pictures.