We are all born artists. The nature generally doesn’t discriminate among newborns with respect to art. Yet most of us try very hard as we grow, without knowing, to stop being artists.

The art wouldn’t complain if we leave her alone. Losing a touch with art, however, is losing a touch with our imagination.

The most ironic thing in the world is having no say when your name is determined for the first time (which is also for the last time for most), because newborns are not necessarily known for speaking their minds.

If a muscleman like Hukum can write a poem, everyone can.

Where there is a true art and genuine virtuosity the artist can paint an incomparable masterpiece without leaving even a trace of his identity.

The artist who is not also a craftsman is no good; but, alas, most of our artists are nothing else