Are we to paint what's on the face, what's inside the face, or what's behind it?

Nothing can be done without solitude. I've created my own solitude which nobody suspects

I have a horror of people who speak about the beautiful. What is the beautiful? One must speak of problems in painting!

But when I am alone, I do not have the effrontery to consider myself an artist at all, not in the grand old meaning of the word: Giotto, Titian, Rembrandt, Goya were great painters. I am only a public clown-a mountebank. I have understood my time and have exploited the imbecility, the vanity, the greed of my contemporaries. It is a bitter confession, this confession of mine, more painful than it may seem. But at least and at last it does have the merit of being honest.

Good designers copy; great designers steal.

Art is the best possible introduction to the culture of the world. I love it for the buried hopes, the garnered memories, the tender feelings it can summon at a touch. It washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.

The fingerprints of the god who amused himself fashioning them - I can see them on any bone whatsoever.