When I was a younger man, art was a lonely thing. No galleries, no collectors, no critics, no money. Yet, it was a golden age, for we all had nothing to lose and a vision to gain. Today it is not quite the same. It is a time of tons of verbiage, activity, consumption. Which condition is better for the world at large I shall not venture to discuss. But I do know, that many of those who are driven to this life are desperately searching for those pockets of silence where we can root and grow. We must all hope we find them.

It is really a matter of ending this silence and solitude, of breathing and stretching one's arms again.

Art to me is an anecdote of the spirit, and the only means of making concrete the purpose of its varied quickness and stillness.

Art to me is an anecdote of the spirit.

The abstract artist has given material existence to many unseen worlds and tempi.

The people that weep before my paintings are having the same religious experience that I had when I painted it.

This world of the imagination is fancy-free and violently opposed to common sense.