There is no progress in art, any more than there is progress in making love.
The complicated engines manufactured by men demand, if one really wants to use them, much calm. Ever since our love for machines replaced the love we used to have for our fellow man, catastrophes proceed to increase.
I paint when I cannot photograph.
When I saw I was under attack from all sides, I knew I was on the right track.
My works were designed to amuse, annoy, bewilder, mystify and inspire reflection.
One of the satisfactions of a genius is his will-power and obstinacy.