I think of my studio as a vegetable garden, where things follow their natural course. They grow, they ripen. You have to graft. You have to water.
I try to apply colors like words that shape poems, like notes that shape music.
The painting rises from the brushstrokes as a poem rises from the words. The meaning comes later.
What I am seeking… is a motionless movement, something equivalent to what is called the eloquence of silence…
I work like a labourer on a farm or in a vineyard. Things come to me slowly. My vocabulary of forms, for instance, has not been the discovery of a day. It took shape in spite of myself… That is why I am always working on a hundred different things at the same time.
In a picture, it should be possible to discover new things every time you see it. But you can look at a picture for a week together and never think of it again. You can also look at a picture for a second and think of it all your life.
Poetry and painting are done in the same way you make love; it’s an exchange of blood, a total embrace – without caution, without any thought of protecting yourself.
For me an object is something living. This cigarette or this box of matches contains a secret life much more intense than that of certain human beings. When I see a tree, I receive an impact as if it were somebody breathing, somebody speaking. A tree, too, is something human.
Art class was like a religious ceremony to me. I would wash my hands carefully before touching paper or pencils. The instruments of work were sacred objects to me.
The works must be conceived with fire in the soul but executed with clinical coolness.
Painting must be fertile. It must give birth to a world.. ..it must fertilize the imagination.
“You can also look at a picture for a second and think of it all your life.”
“The power of color reveals the fragility of the line.”
“I provoke accidents – a form, a splotch of color. Any accident is good enough.”
I begin my pictures under the effect of a shock which I feel and which makes me escape from reality… I need a point of departure, even if it’s only a speck of dust or a flash of light.
The simplest things give me ideas.