Color is sensitivity in material form, substance in its purest form.

As I lay stretched upon the beach of Nice, I began to feel hatred for birds which flew back and forth across my blue sky, cloudless sky, because they tried to bore holes in my greatest and most beautiful work.

My monochrome pictures are not my definite works, but the preparation for my works. They are the leftovers from the creative processes, the ashes. My pictures, after all, are only the title-deeds to my property which I have to produce when I am asked to prove that I am a proprietor.

The imagination is the vehicle of sensibility. Transported by the imagination, we attain life, life itself, which is absolute art.

Blue suggests the sea and sky, and they, after all, are in actual, visible nature what is most abstract.

Blue has no dimensions, it is beyond dimensions.

I am against the line and all its consequences: contours, forms, composition. All paintings of whatever sort, figurative or abstract, seem to me like prison windows in which the lines, precisely are the bars.