Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love.
Colors pursue me like a constant worry. They even worry me in my sleep.
It is better to have done something than to have been someone.
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.
Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment.
I didn't become an impressionist. As long as I can remember I always have been one.