Color and I are one. I am a painter.

A line is a dot that went for a walk.

One does not lash hat lies at a distance. The foibles that we ridicule must at least be a little bit our own. Only then will the work be a part of our own flesh. The garden must be weeded.

When looking at any significant work of art, remember that a more significant one probably has had to be sacrificed.

My self . . . is a dramatic ensemble. Here a prophetic ancestor makes his appearance. Here a brutal hero shouts. Here an alcoholic bon vivant argues with a learned professor. Here a lyric muse, chronically love-struck, raises her eyes to heaven. Her papa steps forward, uttering pedantic protests. Here the indulgent uncle intercedes. Here the aunt babbles gossip. Here the maid giggles lasciviously. And I look upon it all with amazement, the sharpened pen in my left hand.

The painter should not paint what he sees, but what will be seen.

He neither serves nor rules, he transmits. His position is humble and the beauty at the crown is not his own. He is merely a channel.