I Imitate Everyone Except Myself.

There's No Such Thing As A Bad Picasso, But Some Are Less Good Than Others.

When I Paint A Woman In An Armchair, The Armchair Is There To Show Illness And Death-or As A Protection.

They Ought To Put Out The Eyes Of Painters As They Do Goldfinches In Order That They Can Sing Better.

What Is A Face, Really? Its Own Photo? Its Make-up? Or Is It A Face As Painted By Such Or Such Painter? That Which Is In Front? Inside? Behind? And The Rest? Doesn't Everyone Look At Himself In His Own Particular Way? Deformations Simply Do Not Exist.

The Artist Is A Receptacle For Emotions That Come From All Over The Place: From The Sky, From The Earth, From A Scrap Of Paper, From A Passing Shape, From A Spider's Web.