To see we must forget the name of the thing we are looking at.

Pictures aren't made out of doctrines. Since the appearance of impressionism, the official salons, which used to be brown, have become blue, green, and red...But peppermint or chocolate, they are still confections.

Despite my extremely modest prices, dealers and art lovers are turning their backs on me. It is very depressing to see the lack of interest shown in an art object which has no market value.

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.

Colors pursue me like a constant worry. They even worry me in my sleep.

Nothing in the whole world is of interest to me but my painting and my flowers.

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