If there were only one truth, you couldn't paint a hundred canvases on the same theme.

Anything new, anything worth doing, can't be recognized.

Why do two colors, put one next to the other, sing? Can one really explain this? no. Just as one can never learn how to paint.

When you begin a picture you often make some pretty discoveries. You must be on guard against these. Destroy the thing, do it over several times. In each destroying of a beautiful discovery, the artist does not really suppress it, but rather condenses it, makes it more substantial. What comes out in the end is the result of discarded finds. Otherwise you become your own connoisseur.

I always forbade everyone to clean my studios, dust them, not only for fear they would disturb my things, but especially because I always counted on the protection of dust. It's my ally. I always let it settle where it likes. It's like a layer of protection.

To find is the thing.

The artist spends the first part of his life with the dead, the second with the living, and the third with himself.