I might as well ask an artist to explain his art, or ask a poet to
explain his poem. It defeats the purpose. The meaning is only clear
thorough the search. Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. If you hear a voice within you say you cannot paint, then by all means paint and that voice will be silenced. Painting is just another way of keeping a diary. Painting is the silence of thought and the music of sight.
I have an idea that the only thing which makes it possible to regard
this world we live in without disgust is the beauty which now and then
men create out of the chaos. The pictures they paint, the music they
compose, the books they write, and the lives they lead. Of all these the
richest in beauty is the beautiful life. That is the perfect work of
art.
I spray the sky fast. Eyes ahead and behind. Looking for cops. Looking
for anyone I don't want to be here. Paint sails and the things that kick
in my head scream from can to brick. See this, see this. See me emptied
onto a wall.
I dream my painting and I paint my dream.
