My Age And Health Will Never Allow

I Am Still Searching For The Expression Of Those Confused Sensations That We Bring With Us At Birth.

The Landscape Becomes Human, Becomes A Thinking, Living Being Within Me. I Become One With My Picture...we Merge In An Iridescent Chaos.

The Sun Penetrates Me Soundlessly Like A Distant Friend That Stirs Up My Laziness, Fertilizes It. We Bring Forth Life.

Talks On Art Are Almost Useless. The Work Which Goes To Bring Progress In One's Own Subject Is Sufficient Compensation For The Incomprehension Of Imbeciles.

There Is No Such Thing As An Amateur Artist As Different From A Professional Artist. There Is Only Good Art And Bad Art.