A Work Of Art Can Only Come

I Was Walking Along A Path With Two Friends - The Sun Was Setting - Suddenly The Sky Turned Blood Red - I Paused, Feeling Exhausted, And Leaned On The Fence - There Was Blood And Tongues Of Fire Above The Blue-black Fjord And The City - My Friends Walked On, And I Stood There Trembling With Anxiety - And I Sensed An Infinite Scream Passing Through Nature.

In Common With Michelangelo And Rembrandt I Am More Interested In The Line, Its Rise And Fall, Than In Color

My Fear Of Life Is Necessary To Me, As Is My Illness. Without Anxiety And Illness, I Am A Ship Without A Rudder. My Art Is Grounded In Reflections Over Being Different From Others. My Sufferings Are Part Of My Self And My Art. They Are Indistinguishable From Me, And Their Destruction Would Destroy My Art. I Want To Keep Those Sufferings

The Academies Of Art Are Nothing But Great Painting Factories - Those With Talent Are Fed In At One End, And They Come Out As Mechanical Painting Machines.

I Do Not Paint What I See, But What I Saw.