I was reading about animals a while back and there was this motherfucking scientist in France back in the thirties or forties or whenever the motherfuck it was and he was trying to get apes to draw these pictures, to make art pictures like the kinds of pictures in serious motherfucking paintings that you see in museums and shit. So the scientist keeps showing the apes these paintings and giving them charcoal pencils to draw with and then one day one of the apes finally draws something but it’s not the art pictures that it draws. What it draws is the bars of its own motherfucking cage. Its own motherfucking cage! Man, that's the truth, ain't it?
He would always be around you, not in these words or paintings, but in your heart. He will always be in happy memories. You can't cage his worth in few pages and colors.
(Speaking of art): In leaving something unsaid the beholder is given a chance to complete the idea and thus a great masterpiece irresistably rivets your attention until you seem to become actually a part of it.
... didn't paintings lie also? They showed hours instead of minutes.
Colour is a power which directly influences the soul.
Aryami Bose's home had been closed up for years, inhabited only by books and paintings, but the spectre of thousands of memories imprisoned between its walls still permeated the house.
Paintings have a life of their own that derives from the painter's soul.
All the fingerprint paintings are done without a grid.
My paintings are certainly nonobjective. They're just horizontal lines.
It is not your paintings I like, it is your painting.