I Still Come Closest To Success With

My Hand Has Become The Obedient Instrument Of A Remote Will.

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.

Color Has Got Me. I No Longer Need To Chase After It. It Has Got Me For Ever. I Know It. That Is The Meaning Of This Happy Hour.

I Paint In Order Not To Cry.

The Way To Form Transcends Its Own Destination, Goes Beyond The End Of The Way Itself.