Make Chance Essential.

From The Root, The Sap Rises Up Into The Artist, Flows Through Him, Flows To His Eye. Overwhelmed And Activated By The Force Of The Current, He Conveys His Vision Into His Work. And Yet, Standing At His Appointed Place As The Trunk Of The Tree, He Does Nothing Other Than Gather And Pass On What Rises From The Depths. He Neither Serves Nor Commands He Transmits. His Position Is Humble. And The Beauty At The Crown Is Not His Own; It Has Merely Passed Through Him.

What My Art Probably Lacks Is A Kind Of Passionate Humanity... There Is No Sensuous Relationship, Not Even The Noblest, Between Myself And The Many.

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

Sometimes I Dream Of A Work Of Really Great Breadth, Ranging Through The Whole Region Of Object, Meaning, And Style. This, I Fear, Will Remain A Dream, But It Is A Good Thing To Bear The Possibility Occasionally In Mind.

Color And I Are One. I Am A Painter.