Art Lives On Constraint And Dies Of

What One Has Most To Work And Struggle For In Painting Is To Do The Work With A Great Amount Of Labour And Sweat In Such A Way That It May Afterward Appear, However Much It Was Laboured Upon, To Have Been Done Almost Quickly And Almost Without Any Labour, And Very Easily, Although It Was Not.

Led By Long Years To My Last Hours, Too Late, O World, I Know Your Joys For What They Are. You Promise A Peace Which Is Not Yours To Give And The Repose That Dies Before It Is Born. The Years Of Fear And Shame To Which Heaven Now Set A Term, Renew Nothing In Me But The Old Sweet Error In Which, Living Overlong A Man Kills His Soul With No Gain To His Body. I Say And I Know Having Put It To The Proof, That He Has The Better Part In Heaven Whose Death Falls Nearest His Birth.

With Few Words I Shall Make Thee Understand My Soul.

The Best Of Artists Hath No Thought To Show Which The Rough Stone In Its Superfluous Shell Doth Not Include; To Break The Marble Spell Is All The Hand That Serves The Brain Can Do.

True Art Is Made Noble And Religious By The Mind Producing It.