I suffer for my art and despise the witless moneyed scoundrels who praise it.

I paint because the spirits whisper madly inside my head.

The language of art is celestial in origin and can only be understood by the chosen.

Art is everywhere you look for it, hail the twinkling stars for they are God's careless splatters

I suffer for my art and despise the witless moneyed scoundrels who praise it.