The Way One Sees Is Also Dependent

To Die Is As If One's Eyes Had Been Put Out And One Cannot See Anything Any More. Perhaps It Is Like Being Shut In A Cellar. One Is Abandoned By All. They Have Slammed The Door And Are Gone. One Does Not See Anything And Notices Only The Damp Smell Of Putrefaction.

My Art Is Rooted In A Single Reflection: Why Am I Not As Others Are? ... My Art Gives Meaning To My Life.

I Was Walking Along The Road With Two Friends. The Sun Set. I Felt A Tinge Of Melancholy. Suddenly The Sky Became A Bloody Red... I Stood There, Trembling With Fright. And I Felt A Loud, Unending Scream Piercing Nature.

I Do Not Paint What I See, But What I Saw.

And I Would Often Wake Up At Night And Stare Widely Into The Room: Am I In Hell?