Disease, Insanity, And Death Were The Angels

Your Face Encompasses The Beauty Of The Whole Earth. Your Lips, As Red As Ripening Fruit, Gently Part As If In Pain. It Is The Smile Of A Corpse. Now The Hand Of Death Touches Life. The Chain Is Forged That Links The Thousand Families That Are Dead To The Thousand Generations To Come.

A Person Himself Believes That All The Other Portraits Are Good Likenesses Except The One Of Himself.

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

Colors Live A Remarkable Life Of Their Own After They Have Been Applied To The Canvas.

Painting Picture By Picture, I Followed The Impressions My Eye Took In At Heightened Moments. I Painted Only Memories, Adding Nothing, No Details That I Did Not See. Hence The Simplicity Of The Paintings, Their Emptiness.