“I once heard some idiot on the radio saying that all great art has suffering as its dominant theme, and that the greatest artists are only able to create because they suffer immensely in their own lives. What a bunch of bullshit.”

Look at Van Gogh’s paintings: there’s as much joy in them as there is pain. Suffering is only a single color, and by itself it’s boring.

Love attacks. It sneaks up like a pride of lions or a pack of hyenas and eats your heart out while you watch.

Love is raw, and violent, and instantaneous. You don’t fall in love; you get trampled by it.

It seems to be that loneliness is a small price to pay for peace and quiet.

Love is the bully on the playground who takes your lunch money and gives you a black eye in return, the arsonist who burns your house down with you in it, the witch who lures you into her home with candy and boils you alive for dinner.

Matisse did neither. He clashed his colours together like cymbals and the effect was like a lullaby.

I kind of do the drawing with the painting in mind, but it’s very hard to guess at a size or a color and the colors around it and what it will really look like. It’s only a guess at the beginning, and then I try to refine it.

My use of evenly repeated dots and diagonal lines and uninflected color areas suggest that my work is right where it is, right on the canvas, definitely not a window into the world.

The true person is Not anyone in particular; But like the deep blue color Of the limitless sky, It is everyone, Everywhere in the world.

What would it be like to have not only color vision but culture vision, the ability to see the multiple worlds of others.

Someday every woman will have orgasms- like every family has color TV- and we can all get on with the business of life.

Sometimes this fellow’s music was like little colored pieces of crystal candy, and other times it was the softest, saddest thing she had ever imagined about.

They say Elvis is dead. I say, no, you’re looking at him. Elvis isn’t dead; he just changed color.