He Who Has Dreamed For Long Resembles

The Crucial Discovery Was Made That, In Order To Become Painting, The Universe Seen By The Artist Had To Become A Private One Created By Himself.

An Art Book Is A Museum Without Walls.

Our Characteristic Response To The Mutilated Statue, The Bronze Dug Up From The Earth, Is Revealing. It Is Not That We Prefer Time-worn Bas-reliefs, Or Rusted Statuettes As Such, Nor Is It The Vestiges Of Death That Grip Us In Them, But Those Of Life. Mutilation Is The Scar Left By The Struggle With Time, And A Reminder Of It - Time Which Is As Much A Part Of Ancient Works Of Art As The Material They Are Made Of, And Thrusts Up Through The Fissures, From A Dark Underworld, Where All Is At Once Chaos And Determinism.

The Great Christian Art Did Not Die Because All Possible Forms Had Been Used Up; It Died Because Faith Was Being Transformed Into Piety. Now, The Same Conquest Of The Outside World That Brought In Our Modern Individualism, So Different From That Of The Renaissance, Is By Way Of Relativizing The Individual. It Is Plain To See That Man's Faculty Of Transformation, Which Began By A Remaking Of The Natural World, Has Ended By Calling Man Himself Into Question.

Every Great Masterpiece Is A Purification Of The World.