Since I cannot sing, I paint.

It seems to be my mission in life to wait on a dog.

I look at my work and make up my mind about it. After that, neither flattery nor criticism matters to me.

I made you take time to look at what I saw and when you took time to really notice my flower, you hung all your associations with flowers on my flower and you write about my flower as if I think and see what you think and see—and I don't.

It was in the 1920s, when nobody had time to reflect, that I saw a still-life painting with a flower that was perfectly exquisite, but so small you really could not appreciate it.

Sun-bleached bones were most wonderful against the blue - that blue that will always be there as it is now after all man's destruction is finished.

I decided to start anew, to strip away what I had been taught.