The beast sees before the mind thinks
Every mark begins in the gut, not the grid — four hundred works in year one, without a single sketch.
Color screams here, it never whispers
Blood red on ultramarine. Sun yellow on acid green. No pastels, no apologies, no second pass.
The outline holds all the chaos together
Every figure gets a thick black contour — not to cage it, but to give the violence a frame.
Children and lunatics see straight
The youngest painter was nineteen. The oldest refused to grow up. Both were right.