They thought I was a Surrealist, but I wasn't. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.

I tried to drown my sorrows, but the bastards learned how to swim, and now I am overwhelmed by this decent and good feeling.

Everyone's opinions about things change over time. Nothing is constant. Everything changes. And to hold onto some dogged idea forever is a little rigid and maybe naive.

The only thing I know is that I paint because I need to, and I paint whatever passes through my head without any other consideration.

To trap one's self-suffering is to risk being devoured from the inside.

I must fight with all my strength so that the little positive things that my health allows me to do might be pointed toward helping the revolution. The only real reason for living.

I leave you my portrait so that you will have my presence all the days and nights that I am away from you.