“I regard texture similar to the function of taste buds in our mouths. But in a visual form.”

The art should be labeled by the artist’s name only.

I personally am not a team player in that manner.

I always found it strange in art history when studying about the different guilds and movements.

People in general see galleries and museums as family-appropriate excursions.

The diagnosis and x-rays are too honest.

A painting of a bowl of fruit is much easier. It’s for the same reason why we don’t like going to the doctor.

Art exhibitions would be less censored if they were rated, G or NC-17, like movies.

Censorship is a provided system which caters to lazy parenting, which is publicly-funded and socially accepted.

It sounded too contrived and having to follow devised parameters to create art.

Texture does create a specific flavour which affects our senses.

Most people don’t like to be confronted with an actual fact-of-life because it’s difficult to metabolize.

You can’t measure dreams when you’re a dreamer, because most often the caliber is unattainable.

This is what creates the perception that contemporary art is shocking or suspicious.

I do preach the idea of individualism as in not adapting any kind of style or model other than that one of your own.

He’s going on and on and on, and finally he stops. It’s just total horror, and the camera’s still rolling. You can hear it, sort of a grinding noise. And the director says, “Anything else, Bud?”

The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flow’r. Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain; God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.

The principle of order in me, around me, and in the world… I would watch the buds swell in spring, the mica glint in the granite, my own hands, and I would say to myself: “I will understand this, too, I will understand everything.

The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.

The candle-buds opened their wide white flowers….Their scent spilled out into the air and took possession of the island.

How many thorns of human nature are bristling conceits, buds of promise grown sharp for want of congenial climate.

A flower growing from seed to bud to bloom is always where it should be. Everything takes time.

Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.