I'm not performing miracles, I'm using up and wasting a lot of paint.

Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment. To such an extent indeed that one day, finding myself at the deathbed of a woman who had been and still was very dear to me, I caught myself in the act of focusing on her temples and automatically analyzing the succession of appropriately graded colors which death was imposing on her motionless face.

Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love.

What I need most of all is color, always, always.

The real subject of every painting is light.

I can only draw what I see.

Despite my extremely modest prices, dealers and art lovers are turning their backs on me. It is very depressing to see the lack of interest shown in an art object which has no market value.