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

Color and I are one. I am a painter.

Beauty is as relative as light and dark. Thus, there exists no beautiful woman, none at all, because you are never certain that a still far more beautiful woman will not appear and completely shame the supposed beauty of the first.

Art makes something a lot more visible or audible.

Nothing can be rushed. It must grow, it should grow of itself, and if the time ever comes for that work, then so much the better!

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

Color has got me. I no longer need to chase after it. It has got me for ever. I know it. That is the meaning of this happy hour.