At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can.

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

My painting carries with it the message of pain.

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

My blood is a miracle that, from my veins, crosses the air in my heart into yours.

I have never expected anything from my work but the satisfaction I could get from it by the very fact of painting and saying what I couldn't say otherwise.

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”.