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.

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

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.

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

The one thing that fills me with enthusiasm is to try, despite everything, to get nearer to those visions that seem so hard to express.