Nothing is confused except the mind.

The mind loves the unknown. It loves images whose meaning is unknown, since the meaning of the mind itself is unknown.

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

My painting is visible images which conceal nothing... they evoke mystery and indeed when one sees one of my pictures, one asks oneself this simple question 'What does that mean'? It does not mean anything, because mystery means nothing either, it is unknowable.

Life obliges me to do something, so I paint.

We must not fear daylight just because it almost always illuminates a miserable world.

Each thing we see hides something else we want to see.