Color Is The Place Where Our Brain

He Neither Serves Nor Rules, He Transmits. His Position Is Humble And The Beauty At The Crown Is Not His Own. He Is Merely A Channel.

The Way To Form Transcends Its Own Destination, Goes Beyond The End Of The Way Itself.

I Must Begin, Not With Hypothesis, But With Specific Instances, No Matter How Minute.

Nature Is Garrulous To The Point Of Confusion, Let The Artist Be Truly Taciturn.

From The Root, The Sap Rises Up Into The Artist, Flows Through Him, Flows To His Eye. Overwhelmed And Activated By The Force Of The Current, He Conveys His Vision Into His Work. And Yet, Standing At His Appointed Place As The Trunk Of The Tree, He Does Nothing Other Than Gather And Pass On What Rises From The Depths. He Neither Serves Nor Commands He Transmits. His Position Is Humble. And The Beauty At The Crown Is Not His Own; It Has Merely Passed Through Him.