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.

Love in an animal sense is an illness, but a necessity which one has to overcome.

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

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.

In principle, any abstraction of the object is allowed which has a sufficiently strong creative power behind it.

My heart beats more for a raw, average vulgar art, which doesn't live between sleepy fairy-tale moods and poetry but rather concedes a direct entrance to the fearful, commonplace, splendid and the average grotesque banality in life.

I do not weep: I loathe tears, for they are a sign of slavery.