The purpose of art is mystery.
The mind loves the unknown. It loves images whose meaning is unknown, since the meaning of the mind itself is unknown.
Art evokes the mystery without which the world would not exist.
If the dream is a translation of waking life, waking life is also a translation of the dream.
Life obliges me to do something, so I paint.
I detest my past, and anyone else's. I detest resignation, patience, professional heroism and obligatory beautiful feelings. I also detest the decorative arts, folklore, advertising, voices making announcements, aerodynamism, boy scouts, the smell of moth balls, events of the moment, and drunken people.
Only thought can resemble. It resembles by being what it sees, hears, or knows; it becomes what the world offers it.
