One's Art Is Just One's Effort To

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.

Wherever Art Appears, Life Disappears.

One's Art Is Just One's Effort To Wed Oneself To The Universe, To Unify Oneself Through Union.

Any Incentive To Paint Is As Good As Any Other. There Is No Poor Subject.

What Could Be More Interesting, Or In The End, More Ecstatic, Than In Those Rare Moments When You See Another Person Look At Something You've Made, And Realize That They Got It Exactly, That Your Heart Jumped To Their Heart With Nothing In Between.