Every work of art is the child of its age and, in many cases, the mother of our emotions. It follows that each period of culture produces an art of its own which can never be repeated.

Color is the keyboard. The eye is the hammer. The soul is the piano, with its many strings.

As a picture painted in yellow always radiates spiritual warmth, or as one in blue has apparently a cooling effect, so green is only boring.

Each color lives by its mysterious life.

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.

The arts are encroaching one upon another, and from a proper use of this encroachment will rise the art that is truly monumental.

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.