If one seeks to be recognized, to influence one's time and to be useful, and loved, then there are much better things to do than art: there is politics, love and family, work, normal life, that of the adult world, which offers a thousand excellent ways of being somebody.

It is necessary to mourn the figure of the artist, the myth of art, and to become again a child who draws alone at his table.

One does not address the "public". This word has no meaning. We address ourselves and our ghosts. To his lost lives. To those you loved, to your dead. The "public" exists only as an occasional voyeur of this dialogue – there, of this real dialogue – there.