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.
To give emphasis only to beauty makes me think of a mathematics that deals with positive numbers only.
Nature is garrulous to the point of confusion, let the artist be truly taciturn.
I paint in order not to cry.
We construct and keep on constructing, yet intuition is still a good thing.
Each energy calls for its complementary energy to achieve self-contained stability based on the play of energies.