When I am finishing a picture, I hold some God-made object up to it
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.
Can my words distill for you a little sweetness, tender and caressing?
I am a child who is getting on.
I've always painted pictures in which human love floods my colors.
Work isn't to make money; you work to justify life.