There is nothing I hate more than sentimentality.

Painting constantly appeared to me as the one and only possible achievement.

I believe the reason I love painting so much is that it forces one to be objective.

I think only of objects: of a leg or an arm, of the wonderful sense of foreshortening, breaking through the plane, of the division of space, of the combination of straight lines in relation to curved ones.

What are you? What am I? Those are the questions that constantly persecute and torment me and perhaps also play some part in my art.

My figures come and go, suggested by fortune or misfortune. I try to fix them divested of their apparent accidental quality.

One of my problems is to find the self.