What I Will No Longer Accept Is

The Painting Rises From The Brushstrokes As A Poem Rises From The Words. The Meaning Comes Later.

Throughout The Time In Which I Am Working On A Canvas I Can Feel How I Am Beginning To Love It, With That Love Which Is Born Of Slow Comprehension.

The More Ignoble I Find Life, The More Strongly I React By Contradiction, In Humour And In An Outburst Of Liberty And Expansion.

Little By Little, I've Reached The Stage Of Using Only A Small Number Of Forms And Colors. It's Not The First Time That Painting Has Been Done With A Very Narrow Range Of Colors. The Frescoes Of The Tenth Century Are Painted Like This. For Me, They Are Magnificent Things.

For Me, A Painting Must Give Off Sparks. It Must Dazzle Like The Beauty Of A Woman Or A Poem.