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

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.

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

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.

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.

I have been flooded with color on the inside, drab on the outside.

the knowledge of personal failure ... is the invaluable predicate of all honest compassion.

I never decided at all to be an artist; being an artist seems to have happened to me.

I've struggled all my life to get maximum meaning in the simplest possible form.

Art comes into the highest part of the mind, that with which we can know the presence of God.

I have no home but me.

I have slowly come to realize that a family is composed of people who are teaching one another.

Love ... is the honoring of others in a way that grants them the grace of their own autonomy and allows mutual discovery.