The true work of art is born from the 'artist': a mysterious, enigmatic, and mystical creation. It detaches itself from him, it acquires an autonomous life, becomes a personality, an independent subject, animated with a spiritual breath, the living subject of a real existence of being.

The artist is not a 'Sunday child' for whom everything immediately succeeds. He does not have the right to live without duty. The task that is assigned to him is painful, it is a heavy cross for him to bear.

Each color lives by its mysterious life.

There is only one road to follow, that of analysis of the basic elements in order to arrive ultimately at an adequate graphic expression.

The artist must have something to say, for mastery over form is not his goal but rather the adapting of form to its inner meaning.

Generally speaking, color directly influences the soul.

An empty canvas, apparently really empty, that says nothing and is without significance – almost dull, in fact – in reality, is crammed with thousands of undertone tensions and full of expectancy. Slightly apprehensive lest it should be outraged.