Art Does Not Reflect What Is Seen,

Everything Vanishes Around Me, And Works Are Born As If Out Of The Void. Ripe, Graphic Fruits Fall Off. My Hand Has Become The Obedient Instrument Of A Remote Will.

There Is No Substitute For Intuition.

Art Does Not Reproduce The Visible; It Makes Visible.

What My Art Probably Lacks Is A Kind Of Passionate Humanity... There Is No Sensuous Relationship, Not Even The Noblest, Between Myself And The Many.

Beauty Is As Relative As Light And Dark. Thus, There Exists No Beautiful Woman, None At All, Because You Are Never Certain That A Still Far More Beautiful Woman Will Not Appear And Completely Shame The Supposed Beauty Of The First.