M.C. Escher: Journey to Infinity (2018) - full transcript

Yesterday, I received

another crazy letter,

unsigned and without a sender,

postmarked San Francisco.

"Escher,

you're an utter madman.

Yes, utterly, beautifully mad.

I thank the source

of your madness.

A math teacher."

How on Earth?

I feel uncertain

when the sky is dark.

The hippies in San Francisco

continue to print my work

clandestinely.

I managed to get hold of

a couple of horrendous results

through the mediation

of a friendly customer

who lives in that area.

I cannot understand why

the out-of-control

youths of today

appreciate my work so much,

but it does get tiring

after a while.

I receive placemats

with my work printed on them.

They just go ahead and do it

without asking me

or being ashamed of it.

My first exposure to Escher

was in either late '66

or early 1967.

I was at my apartment

in London,

and there was a knock

at the door.

And a friend of mine,

Eric Burdon,

who is a lead singer

for The Animals,

a very popular group,

was on my doorstep

with a book in his hand,

and the book he had brought

was one of the early

Escher books,

and I must tell you that, uh...

I think it literally

changed my life.

So I called him, and I said,

"Good morning, Mr. Escher.

I don't want to disturb you.

I'm an Englishman.

I just wanted to let you know

what a brilliant artist

I think you are."

And that's all I wanted to say.

But then he said,

"I'm not an artist."

And it was shocking to me

to hear Escher tell me

that he wasn't an artist,

because of course,

I think he is.

So I said, "Okay,

if you're not an artist,

what are you?"

He said, "I'm a mathematician."

I thought, "Wow,

he doesn't really know

or understand how popular

and why his work is so popular

amongst all

the younger generations.

Yesterday, I received a visit

from English artists.

He was dressed up like a clown

in blue and red all over.

She had full circles

around her eyes.

It's all very nice,

these little love-ins.

They came to offer me flowers.

I don't understand it.

They appreciate my work

while I don't care one bit

for what they're making

these days.

You make op art.

I don't even know what it is,

"op art."

I've been making this work

for years.

I keep wandering around

in riddles.

On June the 17th, 1898,

I was born here in Leeuwarden

in this stately home.

The Princessehof.

I come from

an exact sciences family,

and I have the privilege

of having parents

who are not only educated,

but wealthy as well.

I am a vulnerable boy,

and the pediatrician

prescribes me

a fairly long stay

at the seaside,

at the Children's Pension

Villa Groot Kijkduin.

I also attend school there.

The only bright spots

are the drawing lessons,

not because I'm good at it,

but because it's

my only comfort

during this awful time.

The fear of not being able

to keep up is the problem.

Come around

tomorrow afternoon...

After secondary school,

I attend the Haarlem School

of Architecture

and Decorative Arts.

My graphics arts teacher

is Jessurun de Mesquita.

I owe a lot to him.

He saw potential

in my woodcuts,

and after only three days,

he forced a switch

to continue in that direction.

Had he not spoken

with my parents,

I would've continued

in architecture,

and I have never

had an interest

in building houses.

I can work like a dog one day

and hardly do a thing the next.

On those days, I stride

up and down the room

like a madman,

when I'm being consumed

by the desire to give shape

to a grand idea

without the ability to do so.

For instance, I'm working

on a drawing of trees.

The result

strongly conveys the idea

of a procession,

a stately row of trees

walking hither from far away

across the hills

and which, after climbing

the last hill,

suddenly stands before us

gigantic and threatening.

Beautiful idea,

and it's there in the drawing,

but not nearly as strong

as I feel it.

I take comfort in the thought

that a man will

probably never be able

to visualize an idea

as strongly as he feels it

himself.

I like to draw here

in the St. Bavo in Haarlem.

Being able to bathe

in the organ's

thundering abundance of sounds

gives me

an overwhelming emotion.

The stormy wind rushed

through the pipes of the organ

and a thunderous voice

proclaimed the glory of God.

Then a young man

laid down on his back

on the big, cold stones.

The thundering wind rushed

through the pipes of the organ

until the pillars of the church

could not bear the sound

any more than he could.

The organ grew a lot bigger,

its pipes stretching

from the heavens to the Earth,

and the young man felt

such a strong wind

that he rose from the stones

and flew into the air.

And then I am admitted

to hospital for observation.

My gastroenterologist

deems my situation hopeless

and expects my complete

and utter demise

within a day or three,

followed by a solemn funeral.

Oh, maybe that's putting it

a bit too harsh.

I have to regain my strength,

set out on my journey.

Without clouds,

the sky is blue.

That's something I've known

for a long time.

But the first time I saw

the light blue of the sky

above the hills of Tuscany,

it was framed

by dark cypresses.

The blueness of the sky

is incomprehensible to me,

as blue as--yes, as what?

Bluer than

the Mediterranean Sea,

bluer than the blue

of the Dutch flag.

Bluer than snow is white

and pitch is black.

I cannot describe

the curious feeling

this lovely beauty gives me.

My poor eyes are staring

and my poor brain

is trying to comprehend

the incomprehensible.

Rarely, if ever,

have I felt more calm,

pleasant, and comfortable

than lately.

Many wondrous prints spring

from my industrious hands.

I leave it to posterity

to judge

whether these contain beauty.

I set woodcutting aside

for a while

to improve my drawing skills.

I want to learn to look

and see better

whilst I am drawing.

I want to enjoy

the tiniest details

such as

a one-inch diameter plant

on a piece of rock.

I want to try to draw these

as accurately as possible.

With your nose

right on top of it,

you see all of its beauty

and all of its simplicity.

But when you start drawing,

only then do you realize

how terribly complicated

and shapeless

that beauty really is.

It is so terribly difficult.

A small piece of rock,

it's beautiful,

but there's nothing

to hold on to.

There is no form

that can be captured,

it simply goes on

in all directions,

and you don't know

where to begin

and where to end.

So nothing comes of it,

of course.

And I won't even start

with all the beautiful

little flowers.

Color is indispensable

for that,

and I don't want to color.

In the spring of 1923,

I stay in Ravello,

which is situated on a hill

surrounded by the foaming

and rippling waves

of the azure Old World sea.

There, on a blissful afternoon

in the little hotel

where I've settled in,

three new guests join me

at my table:

a gentleman, his wife,

and his daughter,

Jetta Umiker, 24 years old.

They've been expelled

from Russia by the Bolsheviks,

leaving behind

all their possessions.

Russia has left its mark on her

as much mentally

as physically,

because she has suffered

from hunger

and seen too many people

being murdered.

She exerts an influence on me

similar to that

of an electromagnet

on a scrappy piece

of cast iron.

Although I decided

to keep my feelings hidden,

her influence

finally becomes so powerful

that on the last day

before her departure,

the piece of cast iron loses

its last remaining

mental capabilities

and slams into the magnet

with a dull thud.

While we are out

on a walk together,

I open up my heart to her.

The prettiest

and softest things you possess

besides your heart

are your hands.

They touch me.

Your long fingers,

like those of a thief,

have stolen my heart.

Why have they chosen it?

Yesterday afternoon,

I escorted Jetta

and her parents

to the train station

where she left for Switzerland.

I feel left behind here,

miserable, and lonely.

I can be alone the whole day,

because when I'm cutting wood,

it sets my light,

fantastical thoughts in motion.

But in the evening,

when my great longing for Jetta

overwhelms me,

the loneliness

becomes unbearable.

Then I walked

through the narrow streets

and think of

the ever so sad life

she is leading,

and of the possibility

that I might make

that life happier.

I like to sketch

in the evening in Rome,

the wondrous, beautiful,

nocturnal Rome

that I love so much more

than the same architecture

during the day.

All the excessive

Baroque thrills

that Rome is filled with

fade at night.

Moreover, the modern,

indirect lighting

with large floodlights

helps to increase

the fantastic effect.

So I draw every evening

and finish the sketch on wood

the next day.

I know no greater joy

than to wander through valleys

and over hills

from village to village

to feel the artlessness

of nature affect me

and enjoy the unexpected

and never thought of

in the greatest

possible contrast

with everyday life at home.

On my journeys,

everything seems real,

but when you remember it later,

you realize that

it was like a dream.

When I remember a scent,

a feeling, or a sound,

the emotion sometimes

becomes too strong for me.

And then there is

the delightful fact

of knowingly abstaining

from the comfort

we are used to at home.

Unpleasant things, such as

a bed not free of vermin,

or food of lesser quality,

even become

part of the enjoyment.

I often think of

undertaking such journeys

in the company

of my sons one day.

For children, it must be

the greatest joy imaginable.

That winter, we were

in the Swiss mountains

in that horrendous white,

snowy misery I cannot stand.

I hate that white shroud

covering the earth.

One night,

when we'd just gone to bed,

the sound Jetta's hair made

as she was plaiting it

in the dark

reminded me of

the sound of a boat

when it breasts a quiet sea.

A great longing for the sea

took control of me.

Suddenly, I came up

with the idea to write a letter

to an Italian

merchant shipping company

that operated a service

around Italy

to Valencia in Spain.

I proposed

that Jetta and myself

would come along

as passengers for free.

In return, I would make

12 prints for them

based on sketches made

during the journey

in order to advertise

their tourist transport.

To my astonishment,

after a few days,

I received

a letter of approval.

I drew like a maniac,

was perfectly pampered.

One liter of wine a day

and lived the life of a prince

on this floating house

that brought me

to a new port every day

without any lugging.

It was delightful.

In Valencia, we disembarked

for a three-week journey

across Southern Spain

at our own expense.

In Granada, we visited

the Alhambra.

In this wonderful

aristocratic work of art,

we spent three days

copying passionately.

The palaces were full

of visitors

who formed

a large audience around us

while we were drawing.

What fascinates me

in the tiles of the Alhambra

is the discovery of a motif

that repeats itself

according to a certain system.

In Haarlem, I already enjoyed

giving meaning

to the entire surface

of a piece of paper,

by this I mean to say

that I don't want to draw

the head of a person

against the background

of a room, for example.

No, besides the head,

the background should have

as much meaning

as the head itself,

thus becoming another head!

It was a first attempt

to systematize,

although at the time,

I didn't really understand

what I was doing.

I was disheartened,

so I abandoned this puzzle.

I was completely inexperienced

and no one on Earth

could help me.

The wall and floor mosaics

at the Alhambra

stem from the same thought,

albeit the Moors only use

geometric figures.

What a pity

the Moors didn't use figures

derived from nature,

such as building blocks,

fish, birds,

reptiles, or humans.

Recognizability is

so important to me

that I've never been able

to do without it.

I had left Italy.

I lost the Italian landscape

and architecture,

and something else

had to take its place.

This stimulated the formation

of inner images.

I started working with passion

when I discovered

that I had things of my own

that had to come out,

that I could express something

others don't have.

I am 40, the age at which

most people are at their best.

For me, this is

the richest of times.

I showed my brother,

a geologist,

some tessellation motifs.

He was interested in my motifs

from a more scientific

point of view

and told me that

I was unknowingly applying

a kind of two-dimensional

crystallography.

He advised me

to read up on it,

but most of the articles

were far too difficult,

dry, and theoretical for me.

Still, my understanding

became clearer,

and I began to see

the possibilities offered

by the regular division

of the plane.

For the first time,

I dared to create compositions

based on the problem

of expressing endlessness

within a limited plane.

An endless series

of three-dimensional men

is rushing down the stairs.

Gradually, they lose

their plasticity

as they freeze, flatten,

and turn into the motif

of a regularly organized

tessellation.

The motif simplifies upwards

towards its original form,

the diamond.

Three diamonds in white,

gray, and black

together form a cube

and thus regain

their plasticity.

The cube turns into a block,

a house,

and from a house,

a human product.

The people reappear

to endlessly repeat

their cycle.

The familiar tile floor motif

on the terraces

is the same

original motif again.

The diamond, the link between

two and three dimensions,

the idea upon which

the entire composition

is built.

The landscape

behind the houses

is intended

as a maximum of naturalness,

in contrast to

the mathematical tessellation

at the bottom of the print.

The print Day and Night

is a similar kind of cycle.

The judgment of acquaintances

and friends

makes me feel that

this is strange to them.

and they don't know

what to think of it.

The reception is not conducive

to the enthusiasm

with which I am

painstakingly tinkering

and searching

in this direction.

I fear that other prints

will be a disappointment

as well,

because in those,

I deviate even more so

than in Day and Night

from a desire

for aesthetic satisfaction.

The mathematical interest

is becoming so dominant

that I am wondering whether

it is still trying to be art

and whether it even belongs

at an art exhibition.

As a little boy

lying in bed at night,

I would enjoy playing

with associative thoughts.

For example, I would say,

"How can I find

the logical connection

between the letter S

and the tail of my dog?"

A thousand ways to get there.

For example, S,

sky, bird, nest,

branch, tree,

garden, dog, tail.

I played a lot of these games,

and actually,

I haven't got much further.

I've merely found a way

to express these thoughts

visually.

The regular hexagon,

honeycomb, bee.

A new factor

has been added to this,

a direct association of shape.

A fish whose background

turns into a bird.

So it's a mishmash

that lacks all profoundness.

It is and remains

the game of a child.

And sensible people are welcome

to consider it trivial.

The best way for me to express

my association mania

would be in an animated film.

In the future,

the animated film

will become

an artistic expression

of great value,

showing more important thoughts

than Snow White or Mickey,

although I have no contempt

for these products at all.

On the contrary,

admiration for Disney's talent.

I often dream of the film

I would like to make,

the astonishing metamorphosis

you would see then.

Sadly, there would be

no audience for it

as I would most certainly

bore people to death with it.

Since the complete exclusion

of the Jews,

I feel increasingly

uncomfortable

when I exhibit my work.

It feels like I'm profiteering.

And if I'm not mistaken,

all visual artists

will be forced to join

the Chamber of Culture,

otherwise they will not be able

to exhibit their work.

I've cancelled my membership

of the artist society Pulchri

and the graphic association

myself.

I think that will be

clear enough.

Here in Baarn,

I hardly know anyone,

and I don't know a lot

of colleagues either.

No matter how satisfied I am

with the isolation

in which we live here,

at this moment,

I would like to have

a bit more human contact.

I have developed

the tessellation pattern

of white optimists

and Black pessimists

into a complete morality tale.

One white and one Black

representative of each type

free themselves

from the gray surface

of the back wall

and walk into space.

They avoid tumbling into

the round hole in the middle,

so they're bound to meet each

other in the foreground.

The Black pessimist continues

to raise his warning finger

until the end,

but the white optimist

cheerfully comes

to his encounter,

and they end up shaking hands.

I had many Jewish friends.

My old teacher, de Mesquita,

he refused to go into hiding.

One night,

they were all taken away.

In '44, during

the Hongerwinter,

the neighbors said,

"Haven't you heard?

The Mesquitas

have been taken away."

I entered their home.

This print was lying

on the floor

with the nail prints

of the German boots on it,

and in his studio,

everything was turned

upside down.

I took home 200 prints.

These things

cannot be forgotten,

taken away

in the middle of the night.

And every now and then,

the image looms up before me

like a nightmare.

When in the night escaped

from the narcosis of sleep,

my opened eyes stare

into unfathomable depths

of darkness,

the birds of despair

come flying on slow wings.

We had a single rickety bike

with makeshift tires,

which I rode to Overijssel

through the bitter cold,

wind, and rain.

Those journeys upset me

very much,

I saw such an awful lot

of suffering.

I'll never forget it.

But I could keep our family

on its feet,

even though my wife

is now in bad shape.

However, I wasn't able

to get any work done.

That was the bitterest pill

I had to swallow.

After the war,

I retired to my studio.

My sons now take care

of the food supply.

My wife is too weak

to do much herself

besides cooking.

Finally, I am working again.

It takes more effort

than ever before.

My brain seems to be

completely dazed.

But at least I'm doing

something again.

Originally,

the intention of The Eye

was nothing more

than a general interest

in the human eye.

But since the viewer

always sees himself

reflected in the eye

he is looking at,

I thought I would show

the reflection of a skull

as a variant of the prints

with mirroring spheres,

because we are all,

whether we want it or not,

looking at death,

and he is looking back at us.

God Almighty, I wish

I would learn to draw

a little better.

What exertion

and determination it takes

to try and do it well.

Every now and then,

I'm close to delirium

from pure nerves.

It is really only a matter

of dogged persistence

with continuous,

pitiless self criticism.

Talent and such is

actually just hogwash,

for the most part.

Any schoolboy

with a little aptitude

will perhaps be better

at drawing than I am.

But what he most often lacks

is the tough yearning

for realization,

the teeth-grinding

stubbornness,

and saying, "Even though

I know I cannot do it,

I want to do it anyway."

The puddle is

uncharacteristically

impressionistic for me,

but the symbol is so strong

and striking in itself,

and every time,

it is such a consolation

to see the sky

in the puddle again.

But it did not come to my mind

to change anything

in the image

as it occurs on a forest

or country road.

It was not my intention

to draw a particular puddle

on a particular country road,

but the puddle

that can be found anywhere,

all over the world.

This creature,

pedalternorotandomovens

centroculatus articulosus,

popularly known as "Curl-up,"

was born

out of dissatisfaction.

The idea came to me

when I was riding my bicycle.

I thought, how absurd.

I am rolling

over the ground on wheels,

which is much easier

than on foot.

God has forgotten

to create the wheel,

and He has also forgotten

to create animals

that can use their bodies

as a wheel or hoop

to move themselves forward.

I am meeting this need

with the design

of this Curl-up.

Biological details

are not yet known.

Nothing to be said

with certainty

about its reproduction.

Three surfaces of the Earth

intersect at a right angle,

and people live

on each of them.

Two inhabitants

of different worlds

cannot live on the same floor,

as their notion of what is

horizontal and vertical

is not the same.

However, they can use

the same staircase,

but with one person ascending

and the other descending.

Contact between the two

is impossible,

for they live

in different worlds,

and therefore cannot have

any knowledge

of each other's existence.

Like a madman,

I have thrown myself

into the printing

of old engravings again.

That damn job simply

has to be done periodically.

Half dazed by

continuous radio sounds,

I'm plowing my way through

this pile of printing ink.

I am smitten by Bach's music.

A short motif

that repeats itself

in various ways,

identically

in a different key,

back to front or upside down.

They're almost

mathematical figures.

It has a lot in common

with my motifs,

which also repeat themselves

endlessly.

In both, there is

a compelling rhythm,

a cadence in search of

a certain endlessness.

This feeling of kinship

is so strong

that I often get inspired

when I'm listening to Bach.

There is

an undeniable connection.

I attended a performance

of the St. Matthew Passion

in Naarden.

My eyes wandered

past the walls,

columns, arches, and vaults,

of that high, wide,

immovable church.

Immovable?

Suddenly,

it became clear to me

that this church

was far from immovable.

My imagination, enlivened

by the constant stream

of beautiful sounds

that came to us,

saw the globe

with the Naarden church on it

rotating in the universe.

First, I saw

the old Naarden fort

as a more than five-armed

starfish.

Then I flew to the coast,

crossed the channel,

and before long,

I found myself

above the gray,

turbulent Atlantic Ocean.

At the latitude of New York,

I reached

the American mainland.

Unfortunately so,

because it was gloomy, cold,

and rough above the ocean.

I cannot give

a clear description

of the sight

of the United States,

but I do know that it was

cheerful and bright there

with lots of sun

on snowcapped mountains.

Near San Francisco,

I ended up

above the ocean again.

I saw Honolulu from afar,

then a whole lot

of cheerful water again

and finally straight

across the dense,

humid jungles of New Guinea,

Celebes, and the Borneo Coast.

How I came back again,

I do not know.

The fact is that

I suddenly found myself

sitting on my kitchen chair

in the Naarden church again.

Just when they were singing

at the top of their voices,

we sit down in tears.

Completely malapropos,

as I felt surprisingly

cheerful and satisfied.

Meanwhile, I have finished

a new lithograph.

I believe I have never

made anything

as strange as this one

in my life.

Among other things,

it depicts a young man

attentively looking at a print

on the wall of an exhibition,

which is a picture of himself.

How can this be?

Maybe I am not so far removed

from Einstein's curved

universe.

I've made an effort to explain

the smaller and smaller print

to visitors,

but it's becoming

increasingly clear

that people are insensitive

to the beauty

of this infinite world

within a defined plane.

Most people simply

don't understand

what it's about.

This is ever more sad to me,

because I'm working

on the next version,

which is meant

to far exceed the first.

Although, in theory,

the infinitely small in size

and infinitely large in number

is reached in the center,

this work only

partially satisfies.

It remains a fragment,

because outwards,

the pattern is

arbitrarily limited.

However, my great enthusiasm

for these kinds of depictions

and my fixation

on my investigations

might eventually lead me

to a satisfying discovery.

I found an image

by the Canadian

mathematician Coxeter

that will probably help me.

One way to bring infinity

to finite terms

is by the transformation

called "inversion"

so that it is on

the same diameter.

But the hocus pocus

of his words

are no good to me.

No matter how much effort

it takes,

it's all the more

fulfilling for me

to solve such a problem myself

in my own clumsy way.

A circular,

regular tessellation

logically bounded on all sides

by the infinitesimal

is a thing of

miraculous beauty.

This is the limit.

The entire world is

contained in it.

It is a successful attempt

at visualizing infinity,

and it represents a milestone

in my development.

Deeply saddening

and hangover inducing

remains the fact

that I'm starting

to speak a language

that is understood

by very few people.

This only increases

my loneliness.

After all, I do not belong

anywhere anymore.

I'm too stupid to live

as a scientist.

I'm not an artist either.

I hover between

mathematics and art.

It's just pure creation.

Shall we take a look at

some paradoxical architecture?

You're gonna have to master

a few tricks

if you're gonna build

three complete dream levels.

Excuse me.

What kind of tricks?

In a dream, you can

cheat architecture

into impossible shapes.

That lets you create

closed loops,

like the Penrose steps.

The infinite staircase.

I'm working on the design

of a new print

with a staircase

that keeps ascending,

or descending, if you will.

It is a closed,

ring-shaped thing,

and yet the perspective

is correct!

There's a great number

of human figures walking on it

in two directions.

One line is arduously

climbing up to infinity

while the other

endlessly descends.

A sad, pessimistic subject,

this staircase,

but very profound and absurd.

People do not like

to talk about their descents,

and all the more

about their climbs.

Paradox.

I've been officially invited

to give a lecture

and exhibit my work

at a conference

for crystallographers

in America.

Fine kettle of fish,

I don't know anything

about crystallography

in a scientific sense,

but apparently, they are

reveling in my fantasies.

Well, I guess

I should go then.

No better means of transport

and no better lodging

than a cargo boat

if you want some peace

and quiet.

For weeks, no need to assume

any responsibilities,

out of reach of the telephone

and letters,

no longer having

to read the newspapers

or hear the news reports.

As a result,

you acquire a receptivity

that allows you

to really wonder again.

You feel disconnected,

not only from worries,

but also from the firmness

of the Earth's crust.

And then you start to observe

that infinite variation

of waves and undulations

and you see

the living creatures

in and above the sea,

the fish and the birds,

and you finally look

at the celestial,

heavenly bodies again:

the sun, the moon,

and the stars.

In the sultry night,

you can lie

stretched out on your back

on a tarpaulin,

and if you bring a flashlight

and a star chart,

you can easily commit

the eternal figures

of the constellations to memory

and call them by their names.

And the moon.

While she was

looking down on me

like a big lamp

high above the sea,

I was so amazed

at the distance

between her and me.

Breathless with wonder,

I was subjected to her silence,

her apparent immobility,

her motionless balance

in space.

She became a symbol to me,

or rather a demonstration

of gravity,

which is not a boring concept,

but a living, gripping

incomprehensibility.

At home,

I am working feverishly,

but I'm constantly disturbed

by the many foreigners

at our door

and the growing amount

of correspondence.

Mr. Mick Jagger

asking me to design a picture

or to place at his disposal

unpublished work

to reproduce

on the cover sleeve

for an LP record.

My answer to both questions

must be no,

because I want to devote

all my time and attention

to the many commitments I made.

By the way,

please tell Mr. Jagger

I am not Maurits to him,

but very sincerely,

M.C. Escher.

These orgies of color

were clandestinely printed

in California.

I got hold of

the horrendous results

through the mediation

of a friendly customer.

The bright colors

are entirely at the expense

of the publisher,

who is undoubtedly speculating

on the taste of today's youth.

They were printed

with fluorescent ink

and will really come to life

in ultraviolet light.

I only know this from hearsay,

because I have

never verified it.

Palm from 1933

never had a lot of success,

but was recently elevated

to the dignity of a poster

in colors so shrill

they hurt your eyes.

What on Earth does

this young generation see

in my work?

Doesn't it lack

all the qualities

that are hip these days?

It is cerebral

and rationalized

instead of wild and sexy.

And how can they reconcile it

with their addiction

to narcotics?

But why not let

those Californian students

and hippies buy a color poster

for a small amount of money?

My prints are not only

much too expensive,

they are also

too sober in tone

for the taste of

many modern youths,

who are usually as fond

of the screaming colors

on their walls

as they are of the screaming

coming out of

their record players.

Sunset in your eyes.

Traveling the train

through clear Moroccan skies.

Ducks and pigs

and chickens call,

animal carpet wall to wall.

American ladies

five-foot tall in blue.

Sweeping cobwebs

from the edges of my mind.

I've always tried to be

an observant person.

I've always tried

to remain open all around.

I--I'm constantly

seeing things, you know?

But Escher's work

made me see differently.

One of the things

about Escher's work

is that it bears studying.

You know, you have an overall

appreciation of the piece,

but when you get

deep into the piece

and see what's going on,

it becomes even more miraculous.

So Escher taught me

to see differently,

and I'm very thankful for that.

I think one of the last pieces

I ever saw of Escher's

was Snakes.

I think that may have been

one of the last pieces

that he did.

And he was not a young man

when he finished that,

and that is stunning.

I am handicapped by my health.

It takes a lot of time

every day.

In the meantime,

I try to reprint wood cuts.

I do not feel free enough

from worry

to start working on new ideas,

and I'm content

with that old métier.

It calms the soul.

Doing this work gives me

the sad feeling of getting old,

because who would

spend his time chewing

and mulling over things

he made years and years ago?

It is not a creative activity,

but really a process

of going over old ground.

A prerequisite

for a good print,

and by "good" I mean

a print that resonates

with a relatively

large audience

is that no hocus pocus

is practiced

without a very sound

and effortless connection

with reality.

What I can say is that

no print ever succeeds.

They all fail,

simply because I always

pursue a vision

that cannot be realized.

My prints, none of which

were ever made

with the primary aim of

making something beautiful,

simply cause me headaches.

That is the reason why

I never feel fully at home

amongst my colleagues.

They pursue beauty

first and foremost.

Perhaps I only pursue wonder.

I really believe

that the high-end art world

is going to rediscover Escher,

and I think that his artwork

is going to be appreciated

for what it really is:

stunning work.

And I think

the rest of the world

is going to have to catch up

to Escher's work.

I think it will transcend

into the future brilliantly.

The crazier this place gets,

the noisier this place gets,

the more his work is

really interesting.

He's gonna be

much more appreciated

in the coming years.

I really feel it.