"oh it flies away... it can't ever be caught or described. For it is one earth, one movement and another earth another earth in a moment or two.

Life itself is an un-finished sentence, or a few haphazard brush strokes. Nothing stays. Nothing is completed. I can make nothing whole from it, however small...

The meaning of a painting is a voice crying out:' Isaw it, before it vanished, it was thus.' An honest painting would never be finished; an honest novel would stop in the middle of a sentence. There is no shutting life in a cage, turning the key with a full stop with a stroke of paint."
wreath of roses
elizabeth taylor