I am my own muse. I am the subject I know best. The subject I want to better.

I paint my own reality.

I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality.

I wish I could do whatever I liked behind the curtain of “madness”. Then: I’d arrange flowers, all day long, I’d paint; pain, love and tenderness, I would laugh as much as I feel like at the stupidity of others, and they would all say: “Poor thing, she’s crazy!” (Above all I would laugh at my own stupidity.) I would build my world which while I lived, would be in agreement with all the worlds. The day, or the hour, or the minute that I lived would be mine and everyone else’s - my madness would not be an escape from “reality”.

There have been two great accidents in my life. One was the trolley, and the other was Diego. Diego was by far the worst.

Surrealism is the magical surprise of finding a lion in a wardrobe, where you were 'sure' of finding shirts.

pain, pleasure and death are no more than a process for existence. The revolutionary struggle in this process is a doorway open to intelligence