Colors Live A Remarkable Life Of Their

To Die Is As If One's Eyes Had Been Put Out And One Cannot See Anything Any More. Perhaps It Is Like Being Shut In A Cellar. One Is Abandoned By All. They Have Slammed The Door And Are Gone. One Does Not See Anything And Notices Only The Damp Smell Of Putrefaction.

It Would Be Quite Amusing To Preach A Bit To All Those People Who For Many Years Now Have Been Looking At Our Paintings And Either Laughed Or Shook Their Heads Reproachfully. They Do Not Believe That These Impressions, These Instant Sensations, Could Contain Even The Smallest Grain Of Sanity. If A Tree Is Red Or Blue, Or A Face Is Blue Or Green, They Are Sure That Is Insanity.

When I Paint A Person, His Enemies Always Find The Portrait A Good Likeness.

My Will Exceeds My Talents.

My Fear Of Life Is Necessary To Me, As Is My Illness. Without Anxiety And Illness, I Am A Ship Without A Rudder. My Art Is Grounded In Reflections Over Being Different From Others. My Sufferings Are Part Of My Self And My Art. They Are Indistinguishable From Me, And Their Destruction Would Destroy My Art. I Want To Keep Those Sufferings