Art does not reflect what is seen, rather it makes the hidden visible.
A drawing is simply a line going for a walk.
Color is the place where our brain and the universe meet.
Art doesn't reflect what we see; it makes us see.
Art should be like a holiday: something to give a man the opportunity to see things differently and to change his point of view.
One eye sees, the other feels.
From the root, the sap rises up into the artist, flows through him, flows to his eye. Overwhelmed and activated by the force of the current, he conveys his vision into his work. And yet, standing at his appointed place as the trunk of the tree, he does nothing other than gather and pass on what rises from the depths. He neither serves nor commands he transmits. His position is humble. And the beauty at the crown is not his own; it has merely passed through him.
I paint in order not to cry.
All the things an artist must be: poet, explorer of nature, philosopher!
Becoming is superior to being.
A line is a dot that went for a walk.
Color possesses me. I don't have to pursue it. It will possess me always, I know it. That is the meaning of this happy hour: Color and I are one. I am a painter.
A line comes into being. It goes out for a walk, so to speak, aimlessly for the sake of the walk.
All art is a memory of age-old things, dark things, whose fragments live on in the artist.
There is no substitute for intuition.
Art does not reproduce the visible; it makes visible.
The painter should not paint what he sees, but what will be seen.
The more horrible this world (as today, for instance), the more abstract our art, whereas a happy world brings forth an art of the here and now.
It is interesting to observe how real the object remains, in spite of all abstractions.
Children also have artistic ability, and there is wisdom in there having it! The more helpless they are, the more instructive are the examples they furnish us; and they must be preserved free of corruption from an early age.
See with one eye, feel with the other.
Like people, a picture has a skeleton, muscles and skin.
Genius is the error in the system.
My self . . . is a dramatic ensemble. Here a prophetic ancestor makes his appearance. Here a brutal hero shouts. Here an alcoholic bon vivant argues with a learned professor. Here a lyric muse, chronically love-struck, raises her eyes to heaven. Her papa steps forward, uttering pedantic protests. Here the indulgent uncle intercedes. Here the aunt babbles gossip. Here the maid giggles lasciviously. And I look upon it all with amazement, the sharpened pen in my left hand.
Color has got me. I no longer need to chase after it. It has got me for ever. I know it. That is the meaning of this happy hour.
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