Art Does Not Reflect What Is Seen,

A Single Day Is Enough To Make Us A Little Larger Or, Another Time, A Little Smaller.

One Does Not Lash Hat Lies At A Distance. The Foibles That We Ridicule Must At Least Be A Little Bit Our Own. Only Then Will The Work Be A Part Of Our Own Flesh. The Garden Must Be Weeded.

A Certain Fire Pretends To Be Alive; It Awakens. Working Its Way Along The Hand As A Conductor, It Reaches The Support And Engulfs It; Then A Leaping Spark Closes The Circle It Was To Trace, Coming Back To The Eye And Beyond.

Everything Vanishes Around Me, And Works Are Born As If Out Of The Void. Ripe, Graphic Fruits Fall Off. My Hand Has Become The Obedient Instrument Of A Remote Will.

Spatial Art Does Not Begin With A Poetic Mood Or Idea, But With Construction Of One Or More Figures, With The Harmonizing Of Several Colors And Tones, Or With The Devaluation Of Spatial Relationships And So On.