All Art Is A Memory Of Age-old

My Hand Has Become The Obedient Instrument Of A Remote Will.

Art Does Not Reflect What Is Seen, Rather It Makes The Hidden Visible.

My Mirror Probes Down To The Heart. I Write Words On The Forehead And Around The Corners Of The Mouth. My Human Faces Are Truer Than The Real Ones.

By Using Patches Of Color And Tone It Is Possible To Capture Every Natural Impression In The Simplest Way, Freshly And Immediately.

The Beautiful, Which Is Perhaps Inseparable From Art, Is Not After All Tied To The Subject, But To The Pictorial Representation. In This Way And In No Other Does Art Overcome The Ugly Without Avoiding It.