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.

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'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!

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.

That's the terrible thing: the more one works on a picture, the more impossible it becomes to finish it.

The object of art is not to reproduce reality, but to create a reality of the same intensity.

Failure is my best friend. If I succeeded, it would be like dying. Maybe worse.