While The Authority Of The Doctor Or

The Myth Holds Us, Therefore, Not Through Its Romantic Flavor, Not The Remembrance Of Beauty Of Some Bygone Age, Not Through The Possibilities Of Fantasy, But Because It Expresses To Us Something Real And Existing In Ourselves, As It Was To Those Who First Stumbled Upon The Symbols To Give Them Life.

When I Was A Younger Man, Art Was A Lonely Thing. No Galleries, No Collectors, No Critics, No Money. Yet, It Was A Golden Age, For We All Had Nothing To Lose And A Vision To Gain. Today It Is Not Quite The Same. It Is A Time Of Tons Of Verbiage, Activity, Consumption. Which Condition Is Better For The World At Large I Shall Not Venture To Discuss. But I Do Know, That Many Of Those Who Are Driven To This Life Are Desperately Searching For Those Pockets Of Silence Where We Can Root And Grow. We Must All Hope We Find Them.

Art To Me Is An Anecdote Of The Spirit, And The Only Means Of Making Concrete The Purpose Of Its Varied Quickness And Stillness.

There Is More Power In Telling Little Than In Telling All.

While The Authority Of The Doctor Or Plumber Is Never Questioned, Everyone Deems Himself A Good Judge And An Adequate Arbiter Of What A Work Of Art Should Be And How It Should Be Done.