I know that to paint the sea really well, you need to look at it every hour of every day in the same place so that you can understand its way in that particular spot; and that is why I am working on the same motifs over and over again, four or six times even.

I've done what I could as a painter and that seems to me to be sufficient. I don't want to be compared to the great masters of the past, and my painting is open to criticism; that's enough.

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.

Listening only to my instincts, I discovered superb things.

One day I am satisfied, the next day I find it all bad; still I hope that some day I will find some of them good.

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

Lots of people will protest that it's quite unreal and that I'm out of my mind, but that's just too bad