I am very depressed and deeply disgusted with painting. It is really a continual torture.

Apart from painting and gardening, I'm not good at anything.

My work is always better when I am alone and follow my own impressions.

I'm not performing miracles, I'm using up and wasting a lot of paint.

I want the unobtainable. Other artists paint a bridge, a house, a boat, and that's the end. They are finished. I want to paint the air which surrounds the bridge, the house, the boat, the beauty of the air in which these objects are located, and that is nothing short of impossible.

Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment. To such an extent indeed that one day, finding myself at the deathbed of a woman who had been and still was very dear to me, I caught myself in the act of focusing on her temples and automatically analyzing the succession of appropriately graded colors which death was imposing on her motionless face.

Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment.