The material came bubbling up inside like a geyser or an oil gusher. It streamed up of its own accord, down my arm and out of my fountain pen in a torrent of six thousand words a day.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
I pick up my pen. It flows. A building appears. There it is. There is nothing more to say.
The dripping... well, if it happens, it happens; it does not take anything from the work. The dripping just proves that you were not trying to control the work, but the work was developing by itself and if it drips, it's a natural part in the evolution of the work.
I have always wanted to know what's going on under the surface.
It was like there was a pile of kindling that was in the back of my imagination just waiting there. Once I lit it, it just flared up and I kept getting ideas and ideas.
I put up my thumb and it blotted out the planet Earth.
When you come into my pieces, it's not an intellectual experience, it's a physical experience. It's coming at your body. There's light, there's sound, the lights in some pieces are going on and off. There's loud roaring sound happening.
I've been in the 'Idol' bubble, and now it's popped, and I don't know what's going to happen.
Suddenly a mist fell from my eyes and I knew the way I had to take.
You know when you take the paint off an old canvas and you discover that something's been painted underneath it? That's what I feel like - that part of the old is coming through the new.
My trumpeting sounds like a goose farting in the fog.