In My Youth, Poverty Enriched Me, But

Art Is Foremost A State Of Mind, And Only Secondarily A Problem Of Form.

Can My Words Distill For You A Little Sweetness, Tender And Caressing?

Will God Or Someone Give Me The Power To Breathe My Sigh Into My Canvases, The Sigh Of Prayer And Sadness, The Prayer Of Salvation, Of Rebirth?

Work Isn't To Make Money; You Work To Justify Life.

When I Am Finishing A Picture, I Hold Some God-made Object Up To It