A tree against the sky possesses the same interest, the same character, the same expression as the figure of a human.
The richness of the world, all artificial pleasures, have the taste of sickness and give off a smell of death in the face of certain spiritual possessions.
For me, painting is a way to forget life. It is a cry in the night, a strangled laugh.
The conscience of an artist worthy of the name is like an incurable disease which causes him endless torment but occasionally fills him with silent joy.
Subjective artists are one-eyed, but objective artists are blind.