My lungs taste the air of Time,Blown past falling sands.
I'm just a simple man standing alone with my old brushes, asking God for inspiration.
Every child has the spirit of creation. The rubbish of life often exterminates the spirit through plague and a souls own wretchedness.
I paint a woman's big rounded buttocks so that I want to reach out and stroke the dimpled flesh.
My talent is such that no undertaking, however vast in size. . . has ever surpassed my courage.
My passion comes from the heavens, not from earthly musings
White is poison to a picture: use it only in highlights.
Others are keen to see if natives other than us live better than we do, without heat in pipes, ice in boxes, sunshine in bulbs, music on disks, or images gliding over a pale screen.
The average woman would not be pondering how fast her date could kill her, but I’ll never be an average woman.
Sandwich outdoors isn’t a sandwich anymore. Tastes different than indoors, notice? Got more spice. Tastes like mint and pinesap. Does wonders for the appetite.
small talk comes from small bones