When you look at art made by other people, you see what you need to see in it.

What I am looking for is not happiness. I work solely because it is impossible for me to do anything else.

I don't know if I work in order to do something, or in order to know why I can't do what I want to do.

The form is always the measure of the obsession.

All the art of the past rises up before me, the art of all ages and all civilizations, everything becomes simultaneous, as if space had replaced time. Memories of works of art blend with affective memories, with my work, with my whole life.

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.

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.