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

I sense a scream passing through nature. I painted ... the clouds as actual blood. The colour shrieked.

There is a battle that goes on between men and women. Many people call it love.

My father was temperamentally nervous and obsessively religious—to the point of psychoneurosis. From him I inherited the seeds of madness. The angels of fear, sorrow, and death stood by my side since the day I was born.

Art comes from joy and pain...But mostly from pain.

From the moment of my birth, the angels of anxiety, worry, and death stood at my side, followed me out when I played, followed me in the sun of springtime and in the glories of summer. They stood at my side in the evening when I closed my eyes, and intimidated me with death, hell, and eternal damnation.

Some colors reconcile themselves to one another, others just clash.