Paris, I Believe, Is A

Autobiography Begins With A Sense Of Being Alone. It Is An Orphan Form.

It Is Comparatively Easy To Achieve A Certain Unity In A Picture By Allowing One Colour To Dominate, Or By Muting All The Colours. Matisse Did Neither. He Clashed His Colours Together Like Cymbals And The Effect Was Like A Lullaby.

Photography, Because It Stops The Flow Of Life, Is Always Flirting With Death.

The Impulse To Paint Comes Neither From Observation Nor From The Soul (which Is Probably Blind) But From An Encounter: The Encounter Between Painter And Model: Even If The Model Is A Mountain Or A Shelf Of Empty Medicine Bottles.

What Makes Photography A Strange Invention Is That Its Primary Raw Materials Are Light And Time.