My first show at MoMA in New York was pictures of new developments along the eastern edge of the Rocky Mountains. They were housing developments that were brutal in many ways, that cared almost not a thing for the human beings inside. They were just designed to make money.

. . .art is a discovery of harmony, a vision of disparities reconciled, or shape beneath confusion.

The only freedom we've got is not to react to anything, but to turn within and know the truth.

I thought I was taking pictures of things that I hated. But there was something about these pictures. They were unexpectedly, disconcertingly glorious.

You are before being and not being, awake and dream take place in time. You have no time.

When you abide in the I you're abiding in the ego. The I is really the ego, the small I. It turns into the Self eventually.

C.S. Lewis admitted, when he was asked to set forth his beliefs, that he never felt less sure of them than when he tried to speak of them. Photographers know this frailty. To them words are a pallid, diffuse way of describing and celebrating what matters. Their gift is to see what will be affecting as a print. Mute.