An Active Line On A Walk, Moving

From The Root, The Sap Rises Up Into The Artist, Flows Through Him, Flows To His Eye. Overwhelmed And Activated By The Force Of The Current, He Conveys His Vision Into His Work. And Yet, Standing At His Appointed Place As The Trunk Of The Tree, He Does Nothing Other Than Gather And Pass On What Rises From The Depths. He Neither Serves Nor Commands He Transmits. His Position Is Humble. And The Beauty At The Crown Is Not His Own; It Has Merely Passed Through Him.

Satire Must Not Be A Kind Of Superfluous Ill Will, But Ill Will From A Higher Point Of View. Ridiculous Man, Divine God. Or Else, Hatred Against The Bogged-down Vileness Of Average Man As Against The Possible Heights That Humanity Might Attain.

Nothing Can Be Rushed. It Must Grow, It Should Grow Of Itself, And If The Time Ever Comes For That Work, Then So Much The Better!

The Creation Of A Work Of Art Must Of Necessity, As A Result Of Entering Into The Specific Dimensions Of Pictorial Art, Be Accompanied By Distortion Of The Natural Form. For, Therein Is Nature Reborn.

Becoming Is Superior To Being.