I Don't Believe In Art. I Believe

I Like Living, Breathing Better Than Working...my Art Is That Of Living. Each Second, Each Breath Is A Work Which Is Inscribed Nowhere, Which Is Neither Visual Nor Cerebral, It's A Sort Of Constant Euphoria.

In New York In 1915 I Bought At A Hardware Store A Snow Shovel On Which I Wrote In Advance Of The Broken Arm .

The Artist Performs Only One Part Of The Creative Process. The Onlooker Completes It, And It Is The Onlooker Who Has The Last Word.

What I Have In Mind Is That Art May Be Bad, Good Or Indifferent, But, Whatever Adjective Is Used, We Must Call It Art, And Bad Art Is Still Art In The Same Way That A Bad Emotion Is Still An Emotion.

The Most Interesting Thing About Artists Is How They Live