All art is a memory of age-old things, dark things, whose fragments live on in the artist.
He has found his style, when he cannot do otherwise.
A line is a dot that went for a walk.
Democracy with its semi-civilization sincerely cherishes junk. The artists power should be spiritual. But the power of the majority is material. When these worlds meet occasionally, it is pure coincidence.
Everything vanishes round me and good works rise from me of their own accord.
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.