There is something mysterious in this work that I do not ever what to discover.

I should like to paint like an man who has never seen a painting, but this man -myself - lives in a museum.

It is possible to make a living thing, not a diagram of what I have been thinking: to posit with paint something living, something that changes each day.

If the artist starts evaluating himself, it’s an enormous block, isn’t it?

In my experience a painting is not made with colors and paint at all. I don't know what a painting is; who knows what sets off even the desire to paint?

To paint is a possessing rather than a picturing.

I do not see why the loss of faith in the known image and symbol in our time should be celebrated as a freedom. It is a loss from which we suffer, and this pathos motivates modern painting and poetry at its heart.