From the root, the sap rises up into the artist, flows through him, flows to his eye. Overwhelmed and activated by the force of the current, he conveys his vision into his work. And yet, standing at his appointed place as the trunk of the tree, he does nothing other than gather and pass on what rises from the depths. He neither serves nor commands he transmits. His position is humble. And the beauty at the crown is not his own; it has merely passed through him.

Art does not reproduce the visible; it makes visible.

There is no substitute for intuition.

Everything vanishes round me and good works rise from me of their own accord.

Color and I are one. I am a painter.

Nature is garrulous to the point of confusion, let the artist be truly taciturn.

Art does not reflect what is seen, rather it makes the hidden visible.