For Twenty Years I Read

For A Hundred Years, Modern Painters, Stubbornly And In The Face Of Incessant Hostility, Have Moved, Step By Step, Leaving Superb Monuments By The Wayside, Towards An Art Of Arrangement Whose Expressiveness Depends Less And Less Upon Its Elements Imitating The Objects Of The External World.

Wherever Art Appears, Life Disappears.

To End Up With A Canvas That Is No Less Beautiful Than The Empty Canvas Is To Begin With.

It Is The Medium, Or The Specific Configuration Of The Medium, That We Call A Work Of Art That Brings Feeling Into Being.

An Odd Contradiction, If The Layman Were Correct In His Unconscious Assumption That An Artist Begins With Reality And Ends With Art: The Converse Is True - To The Degree That This Dichotomy Has Any Truth - The Artist Begins With Art, And Through It Arrives At Reality.