I realized that one cannot reveal oneself without mannerism, without some evident trace of one’s personality. But all the same one should not go too far in that direction...
Whatever is in common is true; but likeness is false.
One day I noticed that I could go on working my art motif no matter what the weather might be. I no longer needed the sun, for I took my light everywhere with me.
Writing is not describing, painting is not depicting. Verisimilitude is merely an illusion.
Perspective is a ghastly mistake which it has taken four centuries to redress.
I have made a great discovery. I no longer believe in anything.
Never join an organization.
Colour could give rise to sensations which would interfere with our conception of space.
Evidence exhausts the truth.
In a painting, what counts is the unexpected.
To work from nature is to improvise.
Work to perfect the mind. There is no certitude but in what the mind conceives.
It is the limitation of means that determines style, gives rise to new forms and makes creativity possible.
I do not think my painting has ever been revolutionary. It was not directed against any kind of painting. I have never wanted to prove that I was right and someone else wrong...
The things that Picasso and I said to one another during those years will never be said again, and even if they were, no one would understand them anymore. It was like being roped together on a mountain.
Whatever is valuable in painting is precisely what one is incapable of talking about.
Colour acts simultaneously with form, but has nothing to do with form.
Scientific perspective forces the objects in a picture to disappear away from the beholder instead of bringing them within his reach as painting should.
You may give all the explanations you like, but your painting makes me feel as if you were trying to make us eat cotton waste and wash it down with kerosene.
There are certain mysteries, certain secrets in my own work which even I don’t understand, nor do I try to do so.
Reality can only be illuminated by a ray of poetry. Everything is sleep around us.