Color has got me. I no longer need to chase after it. It has got me for ever. I know it. That is the meaning of this happy hour.
It is the artistic mission to penetrate as far as may be toward that secret ground where primal law feeds growth.
See with one eye, feel with the other.
It is a great difficulty and a great necessity to have to start with the smallest.
One day I will lie nowhere with an angel at my side.
A single day is enough to make us a little larger or, another time, a little smaller.
Each energy calls for its complementary energy to achieve self-contained stability based on the play of energies.
Make chance essential.
Drawing is the art of taking a line for a walk.
My self . . . is a dramatic ensemble. Here a prophetic ancestor makes his appearance. Here a brutal hero shouts. Here an alcoholic bon vivant argues with a learned professor. Here a lyric muse, chronically love-struck, raises her eyes to heaven. Her papa steps forward, uttering pedantic protests. Here the indulgent uncle intercedes. Here the aunt babbles gossip. Here the maid giggles lasciviously. And I look upon it all with amazement, the sharpened pen in my left hand.
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.
Genius is the error in the system.
For the understanding of a picture a chair is needed. Why a chair? To prevent the legs, as they tire, from interfering with the mind
He has found his style, when he cannot do otherwise.
Art makes something a lot more visible or audible.
To emphasize only the beautiful seems to me to be like a mathematical system that only concerns itself with positive numbers.
Chosen are those artists who penetrate to the region of that secret place where primeval power nurtures all evolution. There, where the powerhouse of all time and space call it brain or heart of creation activates every function, who is the artist who would not dwell there?
Democracy with its semi-civilization sincerely cherishes junk. The artists power should be spiritual. But the power of the majority is material. When these worlds meet occasionally, it is pure coincidence.
In the final analysis, a drawing simply is no longer a drawing, no matter how self-sufficient its execution may be. It is a symbol, and the more profoundly the imaginary lines of projection meet higher dimensions, the better.
In earlier times artists liked to show what was actually visible... nowadays we are concerned with reality, rather than the merely visible.
You adapt yourself to the contents of the paintbox.
Everything vanishes around me, and works are born as if out of the void. Ripe, graphic fruits fall off. My hand has become the obedient instrument of a remote will.
It is possible that a picture will move far away from Nature and yet find its way back to reality. The faculty of memory, experience at a distance produces pictorial associations.
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.
It is precisely the way which is productive - this is the essential thing; becoming is more important than being.
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