“I paint the way some people write an autobiography. The paintings, finished or not, are the pages from my diary.”

Computers are useless. They can only give you answers.

Colors, like features, follow the changes of the emotions.

Work is a necessity for man. Man invented the alarm clock.

The path to youth takes a lifetime.

Painting isn’t an aesthetic operation; it’s a form of magic designed as mediator between this strange hostile world and us.

We don’t grow older we grow riper.

Look for a situation in which your work will give you as much happiness as your spare time.

The more technique you have the less you have to worry about it. The more technique there is the less there is.

The purpose of Art is to create enthusiasm.

Everything you can imagine is real.

The chief enemy of creativity is ‘good’ sense.

A painting only lives in the eye of the beholder.

What one does is what counts. Not what one had the intention of doing.

The people who make art their business are mostly imposters.

Reality is to be found in lightness and darkness.

Others have seen what is and asked why. I have seen what could be and asked why not.

However you disguise novels, they are always biographies.

Read no history: nothing but biography, for that is life without theory.

So as not to disturb me in my little nook behind the biography shelves.

I very rarely read any fiction. I love biographies; I read about all kinds of people.

A singer’s biographical film should have their music and their voice.

Whatever is unnamed, undepicted in images, whatever is omitted from biography, censored in collections of letters, whatever is misnamed as something else.

[George] Uhlenbeck was a highly gifted physicist. One of his remarkable traits was he would read every issue of T%he Physical Review from cover to cover.

My father loved biographies. He loved the true tales of interesting people that were shaping our culture. I get why he dug Vanity Fair. You feel smarter, somehow, for reading it.