An Artist Must Have His Measuring Tools

My Beard Towards Heaven, I Feel My Nape Support / The Back Of My Head, I Grow The Breast Of A Harpy / And My Brush As It Drips Continually / Upon My Face, Makes It A Gorgeous Floor.

It Is Well With Me Only When I Have A Chisel In My Hand.

Read The Heart And Not The Letter For The Pen Cannot Draw Near The Good Intent.

I Am A Poor Man And Of Little Worth, Who Is Laboring In That Art That God Has Given Me In Order To Extend My Life As Long As Possible.

Beauty Is The Purgation Of Superfluities.