I don't know who I am or who I was. I know it less than ever. I do and I don't identify myself with myself. Everything is totally contradictory, but maybe I have remained exactly as I was as a small boy of twelve.

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

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've tried doing so, for it was never my intention to paint only with gray. But in the course of my work I have eliminated one color after another, and what has remained is gray, gray, gray!

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.

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.