Everything vanishes around me, and works are born as if out of the void. Ripe, graphic fruits fall off. My hand has become the obedient instrument of a remote will.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
If I don't write down a thought - or an image or a line of poetry - the instant it comes to mind, it vanishes, which explains why I have pens and notebooks in my pants and coat pockets, the car, the bicycle basket, on one or two desks in every room including bathrooms and the kitchen.
When I disappear, I will disappear; there'll be nothing left.
Everything rational and sensible abandons me when I try to throw out photographs. Time and time again, I hold one over a wastebasket, and then find it impossible to release my fingers and let the picture drop and disappear.
In teaching you cannot see the fruit of a day's work. It is invisible and remains so, maybe for twenty years.
I do have a sense, and I've never not had it, of how easily things can vanish.
Whatever I do is done out of sheer joy; I drop my fruits like a ripe tree. What the general reader or the critic makes of them is not my concern.
Things don't just happen in this world of arising and passing away. We don't live in some kind of crazy, accidental universe. Things happen according to certain laws, laws of nature. Laws such as the law of karma, which teaches us that as a certain seed gets planted, so will that fruit be.
I'm disappearing, avoiding most things.
A lot of my work involves instilling objects with the power of touch - a transference of soul, spirit, energy through actions.
The different bodies of my work end themselves when there's no more discovery to be had.
No opposing quotes found.