I must have flowers, always, and always.
Color is my daylong obsession, joy, and torment.
Try to forget what objects you have before you - a tree, a house, a field, or whatever. Merely think, 'Here is a little square of blue, here an oblong of pink, here a streak of yellow,' and paint it just as it looks to you, the exact color and shape, until it gives you your own impression of the scene before you.
Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment.
My wish is to stay always like this, living quietly in a corner of nature.
No one is an artist unless he carries his picture in his head before painting it, and is sure of his method and composition.
I am following Nature without being able to grasp her, I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.
People discuss my art and pretend to understand as if it were necessary to understand, when it's simply necessary to love.
Every day I discover more and more beautiful things. It’s enough to drive one mad. I have such a desire to do everything, my head is bursting with it.
Eventually, my eyes were opened, and I really understood nature. I learned to love at the same time.
Finally here is a beautiful day, a superb sun like at Giverny. So I worked without stopping, for the tide at this moment is just as I need it for several motifs. This has bucked me up a bit.
Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love.
My life has been nothing but a failure.
I will do water - beautiful, blue water.
My garden is my most beautiful masterpiece
I have never had a studio, and I do not understand shutting oneself up in a room. To draw, yes; to paint, no.
It is extraordinary to see the sea; what a spectacle! She is so unfettered that one wonders whether it is possible that she again become calm.
I am installed in a fairylike place. I do not know where to poke my head; everything is superb, and I would like to do everything, so I use up and squander lots of color, for there are trials to be made.
I do have a dream, a painting, the baths of La Grenouillere for which I've done a few bad rough sketches, but it is a dream. Renoir, who has just spent two months here, also wants to do this painting.
I am working, but when one has ceased to do seascape, it is the devil afterward - very difficult; it changes at every instant, and here the weather varies several times in the same day.
I have always worked better alone and from my own impressions.
I would like to paint the way a bird sings.
I was definitely born under an evil star. I have just been thrown out of the inn where I was staying, naked as a worm.
The more I live, the more I regret how little i know
For a long time, I have hoped for better days, but alas, today it is necessary for me to lose all hope. My poor wife suffers more and more. I do not think it is possible to be any weaker.
I pass my time in the open air on the beach when it is really heavy weather or when the boats go out fishing.
It's on the strength of observation and reflection that one finds a way. So we must dig and delve unceasingly.
I wear myself out and struggle with the sun. And what a sun here! It would be necessary to paint here with gold and gemstones. It is wonderful.
I'm not performing miracles, I'm using up and wasting a lot of paint...
The richness I achieve comes from nature, the source of my inspiration.
