Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo; and the happier he
Among our articles of lazy hardware, I recommend the faucet that stops dripping when no one is listening to it.
Art is like a shipwreck; it's every man for himself.
Art is not about itself but the attention we bring to it.
I have drawn people's attention to the fact that art is a mirage. A mirage, just like the oasis that appears in the desert. It is very beautiful, until the moment when you die of thirst, obviously. But we do not die of thirst in the field of art. The mirage has substance.
To all appearances the artist acts like a mediumistic being who, from the labyrinth beyond time and space, seeks his way out to a clearing. If we give the attributes of a medium to the artist, we must then deny him the state of consciousness on the aesthetic plane about what he is doing or why he is doing it. All this decisions in the artistic execution of the work rest with pure intuition and cannot be translated into a self-analysis, spoken or written, or even thought out.
I believe that a picture, a work of art, lives and dies just as we do.
The white man is too intelligent to let someone else come and gain control of the economy of his community. But you will let anyone come in and take control of the economy of your community, control the housing, control the education, control the jobs, control the businesses, under the pre-text that you want to integrate. No, you outta your mind.
It all depends on you. You can go on sleeping forever, you can wake up right this moment.
When I was 18 years old, about to develop my sportsman career, the asthma complaints became already some years before.
If you have newspapers dating to the last millennium, magazines from the Seventies stacked on your nightstand, and countless envelopes filled with family photos stuffed in a drawer, you may be carrying procrastination to an extreme.