We Construct And Keep On Constructing, Yet

My Hand Is Entirely The Implement Of A Distant Sphere. It Is Not My Head That Functions But Something Else, Something Higher, Something Somewhere Remote. I Must Have Great Friends There, Dark As Well As Bright. They Are All Very Kind To Me.

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.

You Adapt Yourself To The Contents Of The Paintbox.

The Beholder's Eye, Which Moves Like An Animal Grazing, Follows Paths Prepared For It In The Picture.

Everything Passes, And What Remains Of Former Times, What Remains Of Life, Is The Spiritual. In Everything We Do, The Claim Of The Absolute Is Unchanging.