Some Colors Reconcile Themselves To One Another,

Any Number Of Holier-than-thou Honorable Realists Walk Around In The Belief That They Have Accomplished Something, Simply Because They Tell You For The Hundredth Time That A Field Is Green And A Red-painted House Is Painted Red.

I Was Walking Along A Road One Evening – On One Side Lay The City, And Below Me Was The Fjord. The Sun Went Down – The Clouds Were Stained Red, As If With Blood. I Felt As Though The Whole Of Nature Was Screaming – It Seemed As Though I Could Hear A Scream. I Painted That Picture, Painting The Clouds Like Real Blood. The Colours Screamed.

My Art Is Rooted In A Single Reflection: Why Am I Not As Others Are? ... My Art Gives Meaning To My Life.

Your Face Encompasses The Beauty Of The Whole Earth. Your Lips, As Red As Ripening Fruit, Gently Part As If In Pain. It Is The Smile Of A Corpse. Now The Hand Of Death Touches Life. The Chain Is Forged That Links The Thousand Families That Are Dead To The Thousand Generations To Come.

Oil-painting Is A Developed Technique. Why Go Backwards?