There is an exercise I teach at colleges: Get yourself a canvas and a bunch of acrylics and go into a very dimly lighted room. Dip a brush into one of the colors, slap it on the canvas, don't look, close your eyes, make a painting, don't look, turn the lights on and see what you've got. I think this releases people from the editor in their life that's always standing over their shoulder saying, "Oh, you don't have any talent; who do you think you are?"

That is, an artist who creates lots of work probably experiences prolific days and slower days.

Some people say I was very brave, but I really just didn't know any better. All I had was my originality.

He's a Catholic, a Hindy, an atheist, a Chein, a Buddhist, a Baptist and a Jew, and he knows, he shouldn't kill.

I had no reason to want to copy anybody else. What I wanted to give audiences for the few minutes that I thought my career would last was something unique.

There is so much joy in native culture but so much poverty. It's very disturbing.

But in the old days, visual artists used to fall into two distinct categories: those of us who created images with cameras and those of us who applied stuff onto other stuff, with brushes or other tools.