I see drawings and pictures in the poorest of huts and the dirtiest of corners.

There may be a great fire in our hearts, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke.

One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way.

My pictures are my eyes. I photograph what I see - and what I want to see.

I wish they would only take me as I am.

I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.