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.

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.

I paint and sculpt to get a grip on reality... to protect myself.

The older I grow, the more I find myself alone.

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.

In a burning building I would save a cat before a Rembrandt.