The art of an artist must be his own art. It is... always a continuous chain of little inventions, little technical discoveries of ones own, in ones relation to the tool, the material and the colors.

Sometimes it seems to me that I am capable of absolutely nothing, but that nature through me can accomplish a great deal.

The artist need not know very much, best of all let him work instinctively and paint as naturally as he breathes or walks.

Colours in vibration, peeling like silver bells and clanging like bronze bells, proclaiming happiness, passion and love, soul, blood and death.

Art is exalted above religion and race. Not a single solitary soul these days believes in the religions of the Assyrians, the Egyptians and the Greeks... Only their art, whenever it was beautiful, stands proud and exalted, rising above all time.

A work becomes a work of art when one re-evaluates the values of nature and adds one's own spirituality.

Yellow can express happiness, and then again, pain. There is flame red, blood red, and rose red; there is silver blue, sky blue, and thunder blue; every color harbors its own soul, delighting or disgusting or stimulating me.