Painting is the passage from the chaos of the emotions to the order of the possible.

Painting is a source of endless pleasure, but also of great anguish.

Painting is a language which cannot be replaced by another language. I don't know what to say about what I paint, really.

The craft of painting has virtually disappeared. There is hardly anyone left who really possesses it. For evidence one has only to look at the painters of this century.

Painting what I experience, translating what I feel, is like a great liberation. But it is also work, self-examination, consciousness, criticism, struggle.

The final test of a painting, theirs, mine, any other, is: does the painter's emotions come across?