Color Is The Fruit Of Life.

Twentieth Pupil Of The Centuries Knows Its Stuff And Bird-changed This Century Like Jesus Climbs The Sky.

Without Poets, Without Artists, Men Would Soon Weary Of Nature's Monotony. The Sublime Idea Men Have Of The Universe Would Collapse With Dizzying Speed. The Order Which We Find In Nature, And Which Is Only An Effect Of Art, Would At Once Vanish. Everything Would Break Up In Chaos. There Would Be No Seasons, No Civilization, No Thought, No Humanity; Even Life Would Give Way, And The Impotent Void Would Reign Everywhere.

The New Painters Do Not Propose, Any More Than Did Their Predecessors, To Be Geometers. But It May Be Said That Geometry Is To The Plastic Arts What Grammar Is To The Art Of The Writer. Today, Scholars No Longer Limit Themselves To The Three Dimensions Of Euclid. The Painters Have Been Lead Quite Naturally, One Might Say By Intuition, To Preoccupy Themselves With The New Possibilities Of Spatial Measurement Which, In The Language Of The Modern Studios, Are Designated By The Term Fourth Dimension.

Come To The Edge.' 'we Can't. We're Afraid.' 'come To The Edge.' 'we Can't. We Will Fall!' 'come To The Edge.' And They Came. And He Pushed Them. And They Flew.

Without Artists, The Sublime Idea Men Have Of The Universe Would Collapse With Dizzying Speed.