Art Should Be Like A Holiday: Something

I Want To Be As Though New-born, Knowing Nothing, Absolutely Nothing. Then I Want To Do Something Modest; To Work Out By Myself A Tiny, Formal Motive, One That My Pencil Will Be Able To Hold Without Technique.

Every Artist Would Like To Live In The Central Organ Of Creation... Not All Are Destined To Get There... But Our Beating Hearts Drive Us Deep Down, Right Into The Pit Of Creation.

Chosen Are Those Artists Who Penetrate To The Region Of That Secret Place Where Primeval Power Nurtures All Evolution. There, Where The Powerhouse Of All Time And Space Call It Brain Or Heart Of Creation Activates Every Function, Who Is The Artist Who Would Not Dwell There?

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.

...a Long Struggle Lies In Store For Me In This Field Of Color.