Art is creative for the sake of realization, not for amusement: for transfiguration, not for the sake of play. It is the quest of our self that drives us along the eternal and never-ending journey we must all make.
Height, width, and depth are the three phenomena which I must transfer into one plane to form the abstract surface of the picture, and thus to protect myself from the infinity of space.
I am seeking for the bridge which leans from the visible to the invisible through reality.
I awoke and yet continued to dream.
I believe that the reason why I love painting so much is that it forces one to be objective. There is nothing I hate more than sentimentality.
I do not weep: I loathe tears, for they are a sign of slavery.
I hardly need to abstract things, for each object is unreal enough already, so unreal that I can only make it real by means of painting.
I passed blindly many things which belong to real and political life.
I think only of objects: of a leg or an arm, of the wonderful sense of foreshortening, breaking through the plane, of the division of space, of the combination of straight lines in relation to curved ones.
I went across the fields to avoid the straight highways, along the firing lines where people were shooting at a small wooded hill, which is now covered with wooden crosses and lines of graves instead of spring flowers.
In principle, any abstraction of the object is allowed which has a sufficiently strong creative power behind it.
It is the quest of our self that drives us along the eternal and never-ending journey we must all make.
It was so wonderful outside that even the wild senselessness of this enormous death, whose music I hear again and again, could not disturb me from my great enjoyment!
My determination becomes colder to grab this twitching, living monster, and lock it away in crystal-clear, sharp lines and planes, to quell it and strangle it.
My figures come and go, suggested by fortune or misfortune. I try to fix them divested of their apparent accidental quality.
My heart beats more for a raw, average vulgar art, which doesn' t live between sleepy fairy-tale moods and poetry but rather concedes a direct entrance to the fearful, commonplace, splendid and the average grotesque banality in life.
On my left the shooting had the sharp explosion of the infantry artillery, on my right could be heard the sporadic cannon shots thundering from the front, and up above the sky was clear and the sun bright.
One of my problems is to find the self.
Painting constantly appeared to me as the one and only possible achievement.
Painting is a very difficult thing. It absorbs the whole man, body and soul, thus have I passed blindly many things which belong to real and political life.
Space, and space again, is the infinite deity which surrounds us and in which we are ourselves contained.
The stronger and more intense my desire becomes to capture and record that which is unsayable, the more tightly my mouth stays shut.
There is nothing I hate more than sentimentality.
What are you? What am I? Those are the questions that constantly persecute and torment me and perhaps also play some part in my art.
What I want to show in my work is the idea which hides itself behind so-called reality. I am seeking for the bridge which leans from the visible to the invisible through reality. It may sound paradoxical, but it is in fact reality which forms the mystery of our existence.