Art = A Mad Search

Night Is Here. All Is At Rest. My Eyes Close In Order To See Without Actually Understanding The Dream That Flees Before Men Infinite Space; And I Experience The Languorous Sensation Produced By The Mournful Procession Of My Hopes.

No One Wants My Painting Because It Is Different From Other People's Peculiar, Crazy Public That Demands The Greatest Possible Degree Of Originality On The Painter's Part And Yet Won't Accept Him Unless His Work Resembles That Of The Others!

Life Has No Meaning Unless One Lives It With A Will, At Least To The Limit Of One's Will. Virtue, Good, Evil Are Nothing But Words, Unless One Takes Them Apart In Order To Build Something With Them; They Do Not Win Their True Meaning Until One Knows How To Apply Them.

Painting Is The Most Beautiful Of All Arts. In It, All Sensations Are Condensed, At Its Aspect Everyone May Create Romance At The Will Of His Imagination, And At A Glance Have His Soul Invaded By The Most Profound Memories, No Efforts Of Memory, Everything Summed Up In One Moment. Complete Art Which Sums Up All The Others And Completes Them.

There Are Tonalities Which Are Noble And Others Which Are Vulgar, Harmonies Which Are Calm Or Consoling, And Others Which Are Exciting Because Of Their Boldness.