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.

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

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.

(Art is) the residue of vision.

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

What I am looking for is not happiness. I work solely because it is impossible for me to do anything else.

The form is always the measure of the obsession.