In My Day Artists Wanted To Be

I Was Poking Fun At Myself Most Of All.

As Soon As We Start Putting Our Thoughts Into Words And Sentences Everything Gets Distorted, Language Is Just No Damn Good—i Use It Because I Have To, But I Don’t Put Any Trust In It. We Never Understand Each Other.

In My Day Artists Wanted To Be Outcasts, Pariahs. Now They Are All Integrated Into Society

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 The Creative Act, The Artist Goes From Intention To Realization Through A Chain Of Totally Subjective Reactions.