His enormous, pillared studio in downtown Manhattan is decorated by
various objects of beauty, including a collection of giant canvases upon which rainbows have been exploded and teased into myriad stately statements, any one of which could take the skin off your eyeballs.
It sees the truth
of any sort
of object (say an apple) not as that
object itself, in its strange and lovely transience, passing through its
various moments
of existence (seed, tree, ripened fruit hanging on the bough, fruit eaten or moldering away) but as the unchanging form on which it is modeled (the apple that never shines forth in the
beauty of its own color, that has no flavor or fragrance, that has never lived).