Art is very masculine and feminine at the same time. For true art must stand on some eternal truth – the unmoved axis of man. But at the same time, it must possess the deepest sensibility of its own age – the irrational and fickle beauty of woman, and her dark intuition.

Art only based on truth is sterile – as sad as an old bachelor. Art must dare to be playful, contradictory, flirtatious – as silly and exciting as a young woman dressing herself in the latest fashion. Art is not a sermon, but a dance – truth swinging towards a new spring.

Art must know how to love. Not a platonic love of truth, but an erotic love of this changing world, in all its beauty and absurdity. Art must love to be reborn, to gaze upon new horizons, to laugh and play, to bleed and finally die – to be replaced, and one day forgotten.

Art should not want to be eternal. Art cannot be eternal. Only God is eternal, while art acts in a world of death and rebirth. But God is always present in art. It is from him art flows, around him it turns – like the jagged arms of the swastika around the northern star.

The artist is more feminine than other men. But because of this, it is he who can give birth to truth – he who can receive inspiration, who can speak with the promise of a new spring, who can let our blood bloom again. The soul of the artist is in itself a marriage.