Life obliges me to do something, so I paint.

Nothing is confused except the mind.

I detest my past, and anyone else's. I detest resignation, patience, professional heroism and obligatory beautiful feelings. I also detest the decorative arts, folklore, advertising, voices making announcements, aerodynamism, boy scouts, the smell of moth balls, events of the moment, and drunken people.

I need to see the original paintings just as little as I have to read the original manuscripts of books.

Only thought can resemble. It resembles by being what it sees, hears, or knows; it becomes what the world offers it.

People who look for symbolic meaning fail to grasp the inherent poetry and mystery of the images.

We are surrounded by curtains. We only perceive the world behind a curtain of semblance. At the same time, an object needs to be covered in order to be recognized at all.