A true artist is born with a unique voice and cannot copy so he has only to copy to prove his originality.
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The artist one day falls through a hole in the brambles, and from that moment he is following the dark rapids of an underground river which may sometimes flow so near to the surface that the laughing picnic parties are heard above.
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Every other artist begins with a blank canvas, a piece of paper the photographer begins with the finished product.
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Living is a form of not being sure, not knowing what next or how. The moment you know how, you begin to die a little. The artist never entirely knows, We guess. We may be wrong, but we take leap after leap in the dark.
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