We Never Really Know What

The Missionary Is No Longer A Man, A Conscience. He Is A Corpse, In The Hands Of A Confraternity, Without Family, Without Love, Without Any Of The Sentiments That Are Dear To Us. Emasculated, In A Sense, By His Vow Of Chastity, He Offers Us The Distressing Spectacle Of A Man Deformed And Impotent Or Engaged In A Stupid And Useless Struggle With The Sacred Needs Of The Flesh, A Struggle Which, Seven Times Out Of Ten, Leads Him To Sodomy, The Gallows, Or Prison.

I'd Like To Write The Way I Do My Paintings, That Is, As Fantasy Takes Me, As The Moon Dictates.

Proficiency In Art Is A Contract With Your Self And The Empowerment Of Your Self. Not All Of Us Demand Or Even Desire Proficiency, But For Those Who Do It's Necessary To Temper The Influence Of Groups. And While Some Artists Think History Is Bunk, The Historical Evidence Is Overwhelming: "in My Isolation I Grow Stronger."

Take Care Not To Step On The Foot Of A Learned Idiot. His Bite Is Incurable.

Wherever I Go I Need A Period Of Incubation So That I May Learn The Essence Of Nature, Which Never Wishes To Be Understood Or Yield Herself.