I got half-a-dozen paintings from that shattered plate.

I long ago came to the conclusion that even if I could put down accurately the thing I saw and enjoyed, it would not give the observer the kind of feeling it gave me. I had to create an equivalent for what I felt about what I was looking at-not copy it.

I decided to start anew-to strip away what I had been taught, to accept as true my own thinking. This was one of the best times of my life. There was no one around to look at what I was doing, no one interested, no one to say anything about it one way or another. I was alone and singularly free, working into my own, unknown-no one to satisfy but myself. I began with charcoal and paper and decided not to use any color until it was impossible to do what I wanted to do in black and white. I believe it was June before I needed blue.

I hate flowers - I paint them because they're cheaper than models and they don't move.

Art is a wicked thing. It is what we are.

It was all so far away - there was quiet and an untouched feel to the country and I could work as I pleased.

If only people were trees… I might like them better.