My rest might have been blissful enough, only a sad heart broke it.
I arrived on earth in 1928. Born into a milieu of painters, I acquired my taste for painting with my mother's milk.
The dominant invades the entire picture, as it were. In this way I seek to individualize the color, because I have come to believe that there is a living world of each color and I express these worlds.
The immaterial blue colour shown at Iris Clert's in April had in short made me inhuman, had excluded me from the world of tangible reality; I was an extreme element of society who lived in space and who had no means of coming back to earth. Jean Tinguely saw me in space and signaled to me in speed to show me the last machine to take to return to the ephemerality of material life.
Color is sensitivity in material form, substance in its purest form.
I am against the line and all its consequences: contours, forms, composition. All paintings of whatever sort, figurative or abstract, seem to me like prison windows in which the lines, precisely are the bars.
I was trying to show colour, but I realized at the private view that the public were prisoners of a preconceived point of view and that, confronted with all these surfaces of different colours, they responded far more to the inter-relationship of the different propositions, they reconstituted the elements of a decorative polychromy.
To say that a body or its gravitational field 'bends in space' in its vicinity is the discuss visual space in acoustic terms.
I guess some of us are just born with Tragedy in our blood
I felt that K wasn't getting a fair shake anyway.
I watch a lot of hockey. There are some good hockey players and there are some awfully stupid hockey players.