The art of an artist must be his own art. It is... always a continuous chain of little inventions, little technical discoveries of ones own, in ones relation to the tool, the material and the colors.

There is silver blue, sky blue and thunder blue. Every colour holds within it a soul, which makes me happy or repels me, and which acts as a stimulus. To a person who has no art in him, colours are colours, tones tones...and that is all. All their consequences for the human spirit, which range between heaven to hell, just go unnoticed.

Sometimes it seems to me that I am capable of absolutely nothing, but that nature through me can accomplish a great deal.

As an artist I am attracted by decadence, by those who exhaust their lives in the shallow pursuits of pleasure. Occasionally, I feel that spiritually I participate in all these kinds of lives.

Pictures are spiritual beings. The soul of the painter lives within them.

What an artist learns matters little. What he himself discovers has a real worth for him, and gives him the necessary incitement to work.