I Do Not Seek. I Find.

What I Find Horrible Nowadays Is That People Are Always Trying To Find A Personality For Themselves. Nobody Bothers About What You Might Call A Painter's Ideal... The Kind That's Always Existed... No. They Couldn't Care Less About That.

But When I Am Alone, I Do Not Have The Effrontery To Consider Myself An Artist At All, Not In The Grand Old Meaning Of The Word: Giotto, Titian, Rembrandt, Goya Were Great Painters. I Am Only A Public Clown-a Mountebank. I Have Understood My Time And Have Exploited The Imbecility, The Vanity, The Greed Of My Contemporaries. It Is A Bitter Confession, This Confession Of Mine, More Painful Than It May Seem. But At Least And At Last It Does Have The Merit Of Being Honest.

It Is The Object Which Aroused The Artist, Stimulated His Ideas And Set Of His Emotions. These Ideas And Emotions Will Be Imprisoned In His Work For Good.

If I Like It, I Say It's Mine. If I Don't I Say It's A Fake.

Art Is A Leap Into The Dark.