The space that I can call mine. . is so small that my ideas have become small. I am like a caterpillar in a cocoon of paper; all around me are sketches for sculptures, small drawings that seem like moths fluttering against the windows, beating their wings to escape from this tiny space. . Every day the ideas come more reluctantly, as though they know I will starve them and stunt their growth.
Art is not some sort of guideline for understanding. It's a thing unto itself.