They thought I was a Surrealist, but I wasn't. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.

I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality.

I am my own muse, the subject I know best.

I love you more than my own skin.

I wish I could do whatever I liked behind the curtain of “madness”. Then: I’d arrange flowers, all day long, I’d paint; pain, love and tenderness, I would laugh as much as I feel like at the stupidity of others, and they would all say: “Poor thing, she’s crazy!” (Above all I would laugh at my own stupidity.) I would build my world which while I lived, would be in agreement with all the worlds. The day, or the hour, or the minute that I lived would be mine and everyone else’s - my madness would not be an escape from “reality”.

I don't paint dreams or nightmares, I paint my own reality.