Art is a way of recognizing oneself...
What modern art means is that you have to keep finding new ways to express yourself, to express the problems, that there are no settled ways, no fixed approach. This is a painful situation, and modern art is about this painful situation of having no absolutely definite way of expressing yourself.
Once I was beset by anxiety but I pushed the fear away by studying the sky, determining when the moon would come out and where the sun would appear in the morning.
To be an artist, you need to exist in a world of silence.
Everywhere in the modern world there is neglect, the need to be recognized, which is not satisfied. Art is a way of recognizing oneself, which is why it will always be modern.
It is not a torment to be an artist. It is a privilege.
I was a runaway girl from France who married an American and moved to New York City. Im not sure I would have continued as an artist had I remained in Paris because of the family setup.
I found in rules of mathematics a peace and a trust that I could not place in human beings. This sublimation was total and remained total.
I have drawn my whole life. My parents were in the tapestry restoration business, and as a young girl, I would draw in the missing parts of the tapestry that needed to be re-woven. My ability to draw made me indispensable to my parents.
Look at it this way – a totem pole is just a decorated tree. My work is a confessional.
Artists are born not made. There’s nothing you can do for them.
Everyone should have the right to marry. To make a commitment to love someone forever is a beautiful thing.
My life has been regulated by insomnia.
I work like a bee and feel that I accomplish little.
To express your emotions, you have to be very loose and receptive. The unconscious will come to you if you have that gift that artists have. I only know if Im inspired by the results.
I was raised a Catholic. But I am not religious. In my work, I am interested in real flesh and blood.
For me, sculpture is the body. My body is my sculpture.
And what’s the use of talking, if you already know that others don’t feel what you feel?
He was the wolf, and she was the rational hare, forgiving and accepting him as he was.
You pile up associations the way you pile up bricks. Memory itself is a form of architecture.
You are born alone. You die alone. The value of the space in between is trust and love.