One fine day as my mother was putting the bread in the oven, I went up to her and taking her by her flour-smeared elbow I said to her, Mama I want to be a painter.

I am a child who is getting on.

Art must be an expression of love or it is nothing.

You cannot explain me with "isms." They are very bad for an artist. What one must believe in is color.

To call everything that appears illogical, fantasy, fairy tale, or chimera would be practically to admit not understanding nature.

My name is Marc, my emotional life is sensitive and my purse is empty, but they say I have talent.

All our interior world is reality, and that, perhaps, more so than our apparent world.