Draughtsmen May Be Made, But Colourists Are

The True Wisdom Of The Philosopher Ought To Insist In Enjoying Everything. Yet We Apply Ourselves To Dissecting And Destroying Everything That Is Good In Itself, That Has Virtue, Albeit The Virtue There Is In Mere Illusions. Nature Gives Us This Life Like A Toy To A Weak Child. We Want To See How It All Works; We Break Everything. There Remains In Our Hands, And Before Our Eyes, Stupid And Opened Too Late, The Sterile Wreckage, Fragments That Will Not Again Make A Whole. The Good Is So Simple.

Let A Man Of Genius Make Use [of Photography] As It Should Be Used, And He Will Raise Himself To A Height That We Do Not Know.

As For The Ridiculous Fear Of Making Things Below One's Potential Abilities... No, There Is The Root Of The Evil. There Is The Hiding Place Of Stupidity I Must Attack: Vain Mortal, You Are Limited By Nothing.

Always, At The Back Of Your Soul, There Is Something That Says To You, 'mortal, Drawn From Eternal Life For A Short Time, Think How Precious These Moments Are.

Finishing A Painting Demands A Heart Of Steel: Everything Requires A Decision, And I Find Difficulties Where I Least Expect Them... It Is At Such Moments That One Fully Realizes One's Own Weaknesses.