The impulse to paint comes neither from observation nor from the soul (which is probably blind) but from an encounter: the encounter between painter and model: even if the model is a mountain or a shelf of empty medicine bottles.

Men look at women. Women watch themselves being looked at.

Do you know the legend about cicadas? They say they are the souls of poets who cannot keep quiet because, when they were alive, they never wrote the poems they wanted to.

It can happen that a book, unlike its authors, grows younger as the years pass.

The publicity image steals her love of herself as she is, and offers it back to her for the price of the product.

Compassion has no place in the natural order of the world which operates on the basis of necessity. Compassion opposes this order and is therefore best thought of as being in some way supernatural.

We only see what we look at. To look is an act of choice.