The Notes I Have Made Are Not

A Work Of Art Can Only Come From The Interior Of Man. Art Is The Form Of The Image Formed Upon The Nerves, Heart, Brain And Eye Of Man.

I Was Walking Down The Road With Two Friends When The Sun Set; Suddenly, The Sky Turned As Red As Blood. I Stopped And Leaned Against The Fence, Feeling Unspeakably Tired. Tongues Of Fire And Blood Stretched Over The Bluish Black Fjord. My Friends Went On Walking, While I Lagged Behind, Shivering With Fear. Then I Heard The Enormous Infinite Scream Of Nature.

From My Rotting Body, Flowers Shall Grow And I Am In Them And That Is Eternity.

Photography Is An Art Which Touches And Grips One's Own Heart's Blood.

What Is Art? Art Grows From Joy And Sorrow, But Mostly From Sorrow. It Grows From Human Lives.