Gardening was something I learned in my youth when I was unhappy. I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.

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.

To have gone to all this trouble to get to this is just too stupid! Outside there's brilliant sunshine but I don't feel up to looking at it.

The richness I achieve comes from nature, the source of my inspiration.

These landscapes of water and reflection have become an obsession.

No, I'm not a great painter. Neither am I a great poet.

I am following Nature without being able to grasp her, I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.