I Imitate Everyone Except Myself.

When There's Dust Missing Here Or There, It's Because Someone Has Touched My Things. I See Immediately Someone Has Been There. And It's Because I Live Constantly With Dust, In Dust, That I Prefer To Wear Gray Suits, The Only Color On Which It Leaves No Trace.

It Is Not What An Artist Does That Counts...but What He Is.

What I Achieve The First Day Can Be Perfectly Valid, But It Is Not Satisfying. If I Can Go That Far Spontaneously, Then I Must Shed That Result As An Old Skin And Inquire Further Into The Unknown, Or At Least The Not-yet-known-to-myself.

Beauty? To Me It Is A Word Without Sense Because I Do Not Know Where Its Meaning Comes From Nor Where It Leads To.

The Goal I Proposed Myself In Making Cubism? To Paint And Nothing More... With A Method Linked Only To My Thought... Neither The Good Nor The True; Neither The Useful Nor The Useless.