War is killing the individual in it unless he has learned livingness - if he had it he wouldn't be a good soldier.

There's something about black. You feel hidden away in it.

Now and then when I get an idea for a picture, I think, how ordinary. Why paint that old rock? Why not go for a walk instead? But then I realise that to someone else it may not seem so ordinary.

When I think of death, I only regret that I will not be able to see this beautiful country anymore unless the Indians are right and my spirit will walk here after I'm gone.

I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn't say any other way - things I had no words for.

I often lay on that bench looking up into the tree, past the trunk and up into the branches. It was particularly fine at night with the stars above the tree.

Filling a space in a beautiful way - that is what art means to me.