I was walking along a path with two friends - the sun was setting - suddenly the sky turned blood red - I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence - there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city - my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety - and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.

I do not believe in the art which is not the compulsive result of man's urge to open his heart

From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity.

Photography is an art which touches and grips one's own heart's blood.

Death is pitch-dark, but colors are light. To be a painter, one must work with rays of light.

No longer shall I paint interiors with men reading and women knitting. I will paint living people who breathe and feel and suffer and love.

My fear of life is necessary to me, as is my illness. Without anxiety and illness, I am a ship without a rudder. My art is grounded in reflections over being different from others. My sufferings are part of my self and my art. They are indistinguishable from me, and their destruction would destroy my art. I want to keep those sufferings