I Had Something In My Throat. It

I Paint Self-portraits Because I Am So Often Alone, Because I Am The Person I Know Best.

Pain, Pleasure And Death Are No More Than A Process For Existence. The Revolutionary Struggle In This Process Is A Doorway Open To Intelligence

I Leave You My Portrait So That You Will Have My Presence All The Days And Nights That I Am Away From You.

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 Am Not Sick. I Am Broken. But I Am Happy As Long As I Can Paint.