Chess is a sport. A violent sport.

The life of an artist is like the life of a monk, a lewd monk if you like, very Rabelaisian. It is an ordination.

I was interested in ideas, not merely visual products. I wanted to put painting once again at the service of the mind.

Chess can be described as the movement of pieces eating one another.

To all appearances, the artist acts like a mediumistic being who, from the labyrinth beyond time and space, seeks his way out to a clearing.

I was poking fun at myself most of all.

Society takes what it wants. The artist himself does not count, because there is no actual existence for the work of art. The work of art is always based on the two poles of the onlooker and the maker, and the spark that comes from the bipolar action gives birth to something - like electricity. But the onlooker has the last word, and it is always posterity that makes the masterpiece. The artist should not concern himself with this, because it has nothing to do with him.