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.

There is an ineffable but fatal difference in attitude between people behaving naturally and people behaving naturally for a camera.

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

Art is always subject to change in a moment by somebody who's strong enough to shed new light on it.

Beauty makes us more like ourselves and more like each other.

The artist is a strange being. I think it's safe to say that a real artist is conscious of having a personal singularity that is partly a blessing and partly a curse. An artist enjoys and suffers from isolation. As solitude, isolation can nurture. It can also destroy.

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.