Every artist, as child of his age, is impelled to express the spirit of his age.

All methods are sacred if they are internally necessary. All methods are sins if they are not justified by internal necessity.

Everything that is dead quivers. Not only the things of poetry, stars, moon, wood, flowers, but even a white trouser button glittering out of a puddle in the street... Everything has a secret soul, which is silent more often than it speaks.

Every man who steeps himself in the spiritual possibilities of his heart is a valuable helper in the building of the spiritual pyramid which will someday reach to heaven.

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.

Black is like the silence of the body after death, the close of life.

I applied streaks and blobs of colors onto the canvas with a palette knife, and I made them sing with all the intensity I could.