I had forgotten what sleep is like - a kingdom all its own.

artists often lie behind on the field long after the art combine, the broad-bladed harvester of informed criticism, has mowed, bailed, and stored the crop.

Generosity is often the stalking horse of control.

The finest teaching touches in a student a spring neither teacher nor student could possibly have preconceived.

the more visible my work became, the less visible I grew to myself.

Humility is the daughter of truth.

The art of being officially old seems to lie in cooperative submission.

The end of parenthood is implicit in its beginning: separation.

A mystery confounds the problem of industry in art. In the last analysis, to work is simply not enough. But we have to act as if it were, leaving reward aside.

the capacity to work feeds on itself and has its own course of development. This is what artists have going for them.

The shape of my work's development becomes a little clearer every time I am forced to articulate it.

Artists have no choice but to express their lives. They have only, and that not always, a choice of process. This process does not change the essential content of their work in art, which can only be their life.

It is ultimately character that underwrites art.

January is my favorite month, when the light is plainest, least colored. And I like the feeling of beginnings.

There's a small still center into which conception can arrive. And when it arrives, you make it welcome with your experience.

I worked in between carpools and buying food and cooking and whatever else I had to do. I lived an outside life, but really I was living an inside life.