A Simple Line Painted With The Brush

Painting Or Poetry Is Made As One Makes Love - A Total Embrace, Prudence Thrown To The Winds, Nothing Held Back.

I Work Like A Labourer On A Farm Or In A Vineyard. Things Come To Me Slowly. My Vocabulary Of Forms, For Instance, Has Not Been The Discovery Of A Day. It Took Shape In Spite Of Myself... That Is Why I Am Always Working On A Hundred Different Things At The Same Time.

If You Have Any Notion Of Where You Are Going, You Will Never Get Anywhere.

What I Am Looking For... Is An Immobile Movement, Something Which Would Be The Equivalent Of What Is Called The Eloquence Of Silence, Or What St. John Of The Cross, I Think It Was, Described With The Term 'mute Music'.

Painting Must Be Fertile. It Must Give Birth To A World.. ..it Must Fertilize The Imagination.