I can't exactly describe the sensations, but they're entirely human and perhaps have nothing to do with aesthetics.
Unconsciously, probably, I was painting the loneliness of a large city.
I can't always agree with what critics say - it may be true; it may not be true.
...all the sweltering, tawdry life of the American small town, and behind all, the sad desolation of our suburban landscape.
My aim in painting has always been the most exact transcription possible of my most intimate impression of nature.
If you could say it in words there would be no reason to paint.
Great art is the outward expression of an inner life in the artist.
No amount of skillful invention can replace the essential element of imagination.
I believe that the great painters, with their intellect as master, have attempted to force the unwilling medium of paint and canvas into a record of their emotions. I find any digression from this large aim leads me to boredom.
More of me comes out when I improvise.