To me, the greatest artists are almost entirely non-verbal.

Everything I've learned about art was (a) because I was actually interested, or (b) I was actually interested in covering my ass because of what I was writing about.

There's art that I would readily buy if I could afford it, and enjoy, but would never write about because it doesn't seem significant.

With art criticism it's difficult to discuss beauty, to assess it, because there's always the possibility that we're insane.

Black and white can show how something is. Color adds how it is, imbued with temperatures and humidities of experience.

You could say that clinical depression is an incapacity to aesthetic response. It's like there's a constant agreement within ourselves, a kind of mutual understanding between ourselves and the world.

Beauty is a physiological reaction. Beauty is not an object.