There's Nothing More Difficult Than

Everyone Wants To Understand Art. Why Not Try To Understand The Song Of A Bird? Why Does One Love The Night, Flowers, Everything Around One, Without Trying To Understand Them? But In The Case Of A Painting People Have To Understand. If Only They Would Realize Above All That An Artist Works Of Necessity, That He Himself Is Only A Trifling Bit Of The World, And That No More Importance Should Be Attached To Him Than To Plenty Of Other Things Which Please Us In The World, Though We Can't Explain Them. People Who Try To Explain Pictures Are Usually Barking Up The Wrong Tree.

I Understand How You Could See Something In The Root Of A Tree, A Crack In The Wall, In An Eroded Stone Or Pebble. But Marble? It Comes Off In Blocks And Doesn't Evoke Any Image. It Does Not Inspire.

Painting Isn't A Question Of Sensibility; It's A Matter Of Seizing The Power, Taking Over From Nature, Not Expecting Her To Supply You With Information And Good Advice.

Are We To Paint What's On The Face, What's Inside The Face, Or What's Behind It?

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.