“I don’t know how to write love letters.”

They thought I was a Surrealist, but I wasn’t. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.

Everyone’s opinions about things change over time. Nothing is constant. Everything changes. And to hold onto some dogged idea forever is a little rigid and maybe naive.

My painting carries with it the message of pain.

They thought I was a Surrealist, but I wasn’t. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.

Take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are a bourbon biscuit.

I hope the leaving is joyful; and I hope never to return.

Sexism and racism are parallel problems. You can compare them in some ways, but they’re not at all the same. But they’re both symptoms inside the white male power structure.

At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can.

I am that clumsy human, always loving, loving, loving. And loving. And never leaving.

I leave you my portrait so that you will have my presence all the days and nights that I am away from you.

What I wanted to express very clearly and intensely was that the reason these people had to invent or imagine heroes and gods is pure fear. Fear of life and fear of death.

I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality.

I drank to drown my sorrows, but the damned things learned how to swim.

I wish I could do whatever I liked behind the curtain of madness.

People in general are scared to death of the war and all the exhibition have been a failure, because the rich – don’t want to buy anything.

I think that little by little I’ll be able to solve my problems and survive.