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

My garden is a slow work, pursued with love and I do not deny that I am proud of it. Forty years ago, when I established myself here, there was nothing but a farmhouse and a poor orchard...I bought the house and little by little I enlarged and organized it...I dug, planted weeded, myself; in the evenings the children watered.

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

Listening only to my instincts, I discovered superb things.

My heart is forever in Giverny.

It is only too easy to catch people's attention by doing something worse than anyone else has dared to do it before.

If the world really looks like that I will paint no more!