If We Understood The Enigmas

It's Not Your Pictures I Like; It's Your Painting.

Don't Let Them Tell Us Stories.

And Often He Who Has Chosen The Fate Of The Artist Because He Felt Himself To Be Different Soon Realizes That He Can Maintain Neither His Art Nor His Difference Unless He Admits That He Is Like The Others. The Artist Forges Himself To The Others, Midway Between The Beauty He Cannot Do Without And The Community He Cannot Tear Himself Away From.

My Chief Occupation, Despite Appearances, Has Always Been Love.

And Then Came Human Beings; Humans Wanted To Cling But There Was Nothing To Cling To.