One Day I Will Lie

See With One Eye, Feel With The Other.

From The Root, The Sap Rises Up Into The Artist, Flows Through Him, Flows To His Eye. Overwhelmed And Activated By The Force Of The Current, He Conveys His Vision Into His Work. And Yet, Standing At His Appointed Place As The Trunk Of The Tree, He Does Nothing Other Than Gather And Pass On What Rises From The Depths. He Neither Serves Nor Commands He Transmits. His Position Is Humble. And The Beauty At The Crown Is Not His Own; It Has Merely Passed Through Him.

Democracy With Its Semi-civilization Sincerely Cherishes Junk. The Artists Power Should Be Spiritual. But The Power Of The Majority Is Material. When These Worlds Meet Occasionally, It Is Pure Coincidence.

Nature Is Garrulous To The Point Of Confusion, Let The Artist Be Truly Taciturn.

Light And The Rational Forms Are Locked In Combat; Light Sets Them Into Motion, Bends What Is Straight, Makes Parallels Oval, Inscribes Circles In The Intervals, Makes The Intervals Active.