... art is images you carry. You cannot carry nature with you, but you carry images of nature. When you go out to make a picture you find you are moved by something which is in agreement with an image you already held within yourself.

Words represent images: nothing can be said for which there is no image.

My photographs are not pure: they are a seething wealth of imperfection.

Art is the splendor of reality before everything has become meaning.

Art accepts what it finds.

Some speak of a return to nature, I wonder where they could have been?

The coherent way of investigating any field is to examine its possible relatedness to other things.