If only someone else could paint what I see, it would be marvellous, because then I wouldnt have to paint at all.

I see something, find it marvelous, want to try and do it. Whether it fails or whether it comes off in the end becomes secondary. . . . So long as I've learned something about why.

The human face is as strange to me as a countenance, which, the more one looks at it, the more it closes itself off and escapes by the steps of unknown stairways.

When I see a head from a great distance, it ceases to be a sphere and becomes an extreme confusion falling down into the abyss.

All I can do will only ever be a faint image of what I see and my success will always be less than my failure or perhaps equal to the failure.

The head is what matters. The rest of the body plays the part of antennae making life possible for people and life itself is inside the skull.

Only reality interests me now and I know I could spend the rest of my life in copying a chair.