Art Has Absolutely No Existence As Veracity,

I Like Living, Breathing Better Than Working...my Art Is That Of Living. Each Second, Each Breath Is A Work Which Is Inscribed Nowhere, Which Is Neither Visual Nor Cerebral, It's A Sort Of Constant Euphoria.

In New York In 1915 I Bought At A Hardware Store A Snow Shovel On Which I Wrote In Advance Of The Broken Arm .

Three Or Four Drops Of Height Have Nothing To Do With Savageness.

The Individual, Man As A Man, Man As A Brain, If You Like, Interests Me More Than What He Makes, Because I've Noticed That Most Artists Only Repeat Themselves.

To All Appearances, The Artist Acts Like A Mediumistic Being Who, From The Labyrinth Beyond Time And Space, Seeks His Way Out To A Clearing.