Fruits ... like having their portrait painted. They seem to sit there and ask your forgiveness for fading. Their thought is given off with their perfumes. They come with all their scents, they speak of the fields they have left, the rain which has nourished them, the daybreaks they have seen.

It is not about painting life, it is about making painting alive.

You have to hurry up if you want to see something, everything disappears.

We live in a rainbow of chaos.

Everything is about to disappear. You've got to hurry up if you still want to see things.

Is art really the priesthood that demands the pure in heart who belong to it wholly?

With an apple I will astonish Paris.