I am available to all women - all women who can afford me, that is.

I'm sort of like a maniac, and I can't get out of it.

I am available to all women - all women who can afford me, that is.

If I gain support, the support doesn't seem to mean anything. It's not like anyone really cares about me.

My parents took an interest in nothing, at home no books, no records. My mother and my father are the emblem of indifference, dryness and bad taste. My father is also terribly stingy, in life as well as in feelings: I have never seen him filling up the bathtub.

I stopped painting in 1990 at the peak of my success just to deny people my beautiful paintings. And I did it out of spite.

I'm talking to a journalist and I really have nothing to say anymore, this is already uncomfortable. I feel the pain coming already. The brutal pain, when one day I should read your edit of whatever I say, because no matter what I say, no matter how I say it, no matter its tone, its frequency range, its decibel level or the way in which I put the words together, no matter my intentions and no matter the truth. What I'll read one day will be a chastised, manipulated abortion of your misunderstandings, your manipulations, your agenda and your amateur use of the English language.