I've decided that art is a habit-forming drug. That's all it is, for the artist, for the collector, for anybody connected with it.

Artmaking is making the invisible, visible.

All this twaddle, the existence of God, atheism, determinism, liberation, societies, death, etc., are pieces of a chess game called language, and they are amusing only if one does not preoccupy oneself with 'winning or losing this game of chess.

I have forced myself to contradict myself in order to avoid conforming to my own taste.

Art has absolutely no existence as veracity, as truth.

In the last analysis, the artist may shout from all the rooftops that he is a genius; he will have to wait for the verdict of posterity.

The individual, man as a man, man as a brain, if you like, interests me more than what he makes, because I've noticed that most artists only repeat themselves.