So vast is art, so narrow human wit.
Some painters transform the sun into a yellow spot, others transform a yellow spot into the sun.
The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider’s web.
The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without work.
The artist one day falls through a hole in the brambles, and from that moment he is following the dark rapids of an underground river which may sometimes flow so near to the surface that the laughing picnic parties are heard above.