You adapt yourself to the contents of the paintbox.
Drawing is the art of taking a line for a walk.
Everything vanishes around me, and works are born as if out of the void. Ripe, graphic fruits fall off. My hand has become the obedient instrument of a remote will.
I paint in order not to cry.
Becoming is superior to being.
It is the artistic mission to penetrate as far as may be toward that secret ground where primal law feeds growth.