My Will Exceeds My Talents.

What Is Art? Art Grows From Joy And Sorrow, But Mostly From Sorrow. It Grows From Human Lives.

To Die Is As If One's Eyes Had Been Put Out And One Cannot See Anything Any More. Perhaps It Is Like Being Shut In A Cellar. One Is Abandoned By All. They Have Slammed The Door And Are Gone. One Does Not See Anything And Notices Only The Damp Smell Of Putrefaction.

It Is Better To Have A Good Painting With Ten Holes Than Ten Bad Paintings Without Any Holes.

In Common With Michelangelo And Rembrandt I Am More Interested In The Line, Its Rise And Fall, Than In Color

I Don’t Believe In An Art That Is Not Born Out Of Man’s Need To Open His Heart.