Life is merely a fraction of a second. An infinitely small amount of time to fulfill our desires, our dreams, our passions.

In art, there are only two types of people: revolutionaries and plagiarists. And in the end, doesn't the revolutionary's work become official, once the State takes it over?

Poor artist! You gave away part of your soul when you painted the picture which you are now trying to dispose of.

It is the eye of ignorance that assigns a fixed and unchangeable color to every object; beware of this stumbling block.

Where do we come from? What are We? Where are we going?

Machines have come, art has fled, and I am far from thinking photography can help us.

The flat sound of my wooden clogs on the cobblestones, deep, hollow and powerful, is the note I seek in my painting.