The Longer A Line, The More Of

Everything Vanishes Around Me, And Works Are Born As If Out Of The Void. Ripe, Graphic Fruits Fall Off. My Hand Has Become The Obedient Instrument Of A Remote Will.

All Art Is A Memory Of Age-old Things, Dark Things, Whose Fragments Live On In The Artist.

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.

I Still Come Closest To Success With Drawing.