My Mirror Probes Down To The Heart.

In My Productive Activity, Every Time A Type Grows Beyond The Stage Of Its Genesis, And I Have About Reached The Goal, The Intensity Gets Lost Very Quickly, And I Have To Look For New Ways.

Art Does Not Reproduce The Visible; It Makes Visible.

Nature Can Afford To Be Prodigal In Everything, The Artist Must Be Frugal Down To The Last Detail. Nature Is Garrulous To The Point Of Confusion, Let The Artist Be Truly Taciturn.

Art Should Be Like A Holiday: Something To Give A Man The Opportunity To See Things Differently And To Change His Point Of View.

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.