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.

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

The form is always the measure of the obsession.

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

If I see everything in gray, and in gray all the colors which I experience and which I would like to reproduce, then why should I use any other color?

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

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