Two portraits of artist come to my mind.

The first portrait comes from Jean Cocteau’s The Blood of a Poet. A lustrous mouth appears on the artist’s hand, sighing, whispering, bringing both sensual pleasures and mental confusions.

The second comes from Paul Klee, who compares the artist to a tree. The root absorbs streams of imagery and experience, and the crown of the tree is his art. The artist is the stem, passing on what comes to him from the depths. "He neither serves nor rules — he transmits."

Perhaps every artist is a synthesis of these two portraits, one that swings between narcistic obsession to transcendental wisdom.

— 2006. 03. 15