There Are Only Two Types Of Women

The Artist Is A Receptacle For Emotions That Come From All Over The Place: From The Sky, From The Earth, From A Scrap Of Paper, From A Passing Shape, From A Spider's Web.

I Do Not Seek. I Find.

I Hate That Aesthetic Game Of The Eye And The Mind, Played By These Connoisseurs, These Mandarins Who "appreciate" Beauty. What Is Beauty, Anyway? There's No Such Thing. I Never "appreciate," Any More Than I "like." I Love It Or I Hate.

Ah, Good Taste! What A Dreadful Thing! Taste Is The Enemy Of Creativeness.

It Takes A Long Time To Become Young.