The first cause of Absurd conclusions I ascribe to the want of Method.
Art is always to a large extent about need, despair and hopelessness.
I pursue no objectives, no systems, no tendency; I have no program, no style, no direction. I have no time for specialized concerns, working themes, or variations that lead to mastery. I steer clear of definitions. I don’t know what I want. I am inconsistent, non-committal, passive; I like the indefinite, the boundless; I like continual uncertainty.
Art is the highest form of hope.
It is a danger to wait around for an idea to occur to you. You have to find the idea.
To talk about paintings is not only difficult but perhaps pointless too. You can only express in words what words are capable of expressing-- what language can communicate. Painting has nothing to do with that.
Now there are no priests or philosophers left, artists are the most important people in the world.
What follows is more about books than it is about me, but nonetheless it is my inward autobiography, for the words we take into ourselves help to shape us.
Pale purple as the bloom om a ripe plum, veined with the gold of late flowering gorse, set with small slender birches,just turning yellow,with red-berried rowans and thicket of bracken, the heath lay steeped in sunshine.
When someone has the wit to coin a useful phrase, it ought to be acclaimed and broadcast or it will perish.
It struck me while I was sitting here; everything changes but the sea.