All language subtitles for M.C.Escher.Journey.to.Infinity.2018.1080

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.