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

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

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

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.

For me, a landscape does not exist in its own right, since its appearance changes at every moment; but the surrounding atmosphere brings it to life - the light and the air which vary continually. For me, it is only the surrounding atmosphere which gives subjects their true value.

My heart is forever in Giverny.

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