What could be said about me...a man to whom only his painting matters? And of course his garden and his flowers as well.

The older I become the more I realize of that I have to work very hard to reproduce what I search: the instantaneous. The influence of the atmosphere on the things and the light scattered throughout.

No one is an artist unless he carries his picture in his head before painting it, and is sure of his method and composition.

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.

All I did was to look at what the universe showed me, to let my brush bear witness to it.

The only merit I have is to have painted directly from nature with the aim of conveying my impressions in front of the most fugitive effects.

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.