For me, painting is a way to forget life. It is a cry in the night, a strangled laugh.

Subjective artists are one-eyed, but objective artists are blind.

Anyone can revolt. It is more difficult silently to obey our own inner promptings, and to spend our lives finding sincere and fitting means of expression for our temperament and our gifts.

Painting is a way to forget life. It is a cry in the night, a strangled laugh.

The richness of the world, all artificial pleasures, have the taste of sickness and give off a smell of death in the face of certain spiritual possessions.

The conscience of an artist worthy of the name is like an incurable disease which causes him endless torment but occasionally fills him with silent joy.