In former days...

...the artist remained unknown and his work was to the glory of God. He lived and died more or less important than other artisans; 'eternal values,' 'immortality' and masterpiece were terms not applicable in his case. The ability to create was a gift. In such a world flourished invulnerable assurance and natural humility.

Today the individual has become the highest form and the greatest bane of artistic creation. The smallest wound or pain of the ego is examined under a microscope as if it were of eternal importance. The artist considers his isolation, his subjectivity, his individualism almost holy. Thus we finally gather in one large pen, where we stand and bleat about our loneliness without listening to each other and without realising we are smothering each other to death. The individualists stare into each other's eyes and yet deny the existence of each other.