You Adapt Yourself To The Contents Of

Art Doesn't Reflect What We See; It Makes Us See.

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

I Cannot Be Grasped In The Here And Now, For My Dwelling Place Is Much Among The Dead, As The Yet Unborn, Slightly Closer To The Heart Of Creation Than Usual, But Still Not Close Enough.

I Want To Be As Though New-born, Knowing Nothing, Absolutely Nothing. Then I Want To Do Something Modest; To Work Out By Myself A Tiny, Formal Motive, One That My Pencil Will Be Able To Hold Without Technique.

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