Color Is The Place Where Our Brain

I Have A Clear View Of 12 Years Of History Of My Inner Self. First The Cramped Self, That Self With Big Blinkers, Then The Disappearance Of The Blinkers And The Self, Now Gradually The Reemergence Of A Self Without Blinkers.

I Paint In Order Not To Cry.

What My Art Probably Lacks Is A Kind Of Passionate Humanity... There Is No Sensuous Relationship, Not Even The Noblest, Between Myself And The Many.

In The Final Analysis, A Drawing Simply Is No Longer A Drawing, No Matter How Self-sufficient Its Execution May Be. It Is A Symbol, And The More Profoundly The Imaginary Lines Of Projection Meet Higher Dimensions, The Better.

The Way To Form Transcends Its Own Destination, Goes Beyond The End Of The Way Itself.