It Is Really A Matter Of Ending

I Will Say Without Reservations That From My Point Of View There Can Be No Abstractions. Any Shape Or Area That Has Not The Pulsating Concreteness Of Real Flesh And Bones, Its Vulnerability To Pleasure Or Pain Is Nothing At All. Any Picture That Does Not Provide The Environment In Which The Breath Of Life Can Be Drawn Does Not Interest Me.

The Romantics Were Prompted To Seek Exotic Subjects And To Travel To Far Off Places. They Failed To Realize That, Though The Transcendental Must Involve The Strange And Unfamiliar, Not Everything Strange Or Unfamiliar Is Transcendental.

When I Was A Younger Man, Art Was A Lonely Thing. No Galleries, No Collectors, No Critics, No Money. Yet, It Was A Golden Age, For We All Had Nothing To Lose And A Vision To Gain. Today It Is Not Quite The Same. It Is A Time Of Tons Of Verbiage, Activity, Consumption. Which Condition Is Better For The World At Large I Shall Not Venture To Discuss. But I Do Know, That Many Of Those Who Are Driven To This Life Are Desperately Searching For Those Pockets Of Silence Where We Can Root And Grow. We Must All Hope We Find Them.

(i Am) Dealing Not With The Particular Anecdote, But Rather With The Spirit Of Myth, Which Is Generic To All Myths At All Times.

If You Are Moved Only By The Color Relationships, Then You Miss The Point.