For me, painting is a way to forget life. It is a cry in the night, a strangled laugh.

The conscience of an artist worthy of the name is like an incurable disease which causes him endless torment but occasionally fills him with silent joy.

I am a believer and a conformist.

The artist discards all theories, both his own and those of others. He forgets everything when he is in front of his canvas.

Subjective artists are one-eyed, but objective artists are blind.

For me, painting is a way to forget life. It is a cry in the night, a strangled laugh.

My only objective is to paint a Christ so moving that those who see him will be converted.

Often pagans, with their eyes wide open, do not see very clearly.

A tree against the sky possesses the same interest, the same character, the same expression as the figure of a human.

Nothing is old, nothing is new, save the light of grace underneath which beats a human heart. The way of feeling, of understanding, of loving; the way of seeing the country, the faces that your father saw, that your mother knew. The rest is chimerical.

The richness of the world, all artificial pleasures, have the taste of sickness and give off a smell of death in the face of certain spiritual possessions.