You adapt yourself to the contents of the paintbox.

To give emphasis only to beauty makes me think of a mathematics that deals with positive numbers only.

It is the artistic mission to penetrate as far as may be toward that secret ground where primal law feeds growth.

One day I will lie nowhere with an angel at my side.

Light and the rational forms are locked in combat; light sets them into motion, bends what is straight, makes parallels oval, inscribes circles in the intervals, makes the intervals active.

My hand has become the obedient instrument of a remote will.

My mirror probes down to the heart. I write words on the forehead and around the corners of the mouth. My human faces are truer than the real ones.