For The Understanding Of A Picture A

From The Root, The Sap Rises Up Into The Artist, Flows Through Him, Flows To His Eye. Overwhelmed And Activated By The Force Of The Current, He Conveys His Vision Into His Work. And Yet, Standing At His Appointed Place As The Trunk Of The Tree, He Does Nothing Other Than Gather And Pass On What Rises From The Depths. He Neither Serves Nor Commands He Transmits. His Position Is Humble. And The Beauty At The Crown Is Not His Own; It Has Merely Passed Through Him.

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.

Like People, A Picture Has A Skeleton, Muscles And Skin.

Color Possesses Me. I Don't Have To Pursue It. It Will Possess Me Always, I Know It. That Is The Meaning Of This Happy Hour: Color And I Are One. I Am A Painter.

The Artist Of Today Is More Than An Improved Camera, He Is More Complex, Richer, And Wider. He Is A Creature On The Earth And A Creature Within The Whole, That Is, A Creature On A Star Among Stars.