If one could only reproduce nature, and always with less beauty than the original, why paint at all?

One day a hummingbird flew in-- It fluttered against the window til I got it down where I could reach it with an open umbrella-- --When I had it in my hand it was so small I couldn't believe I had it--but I could feel the intense life--so intense and so tiny-- ...You were like the humming bird to me... And I am rather inclined to feel that you and I know the best part of one another without spending much time together-- --It is not that I fear the knowing-- It is that I am at this moment willing to let you be what you are to me--it is beautiful and pure and very intensely alive.

Singing has always seemed to me the most perfect means of expression.

Singing has always seemed to me the most perfect means of expression. It is so spontaneous. And after singing, I think the violin. Since I cannot sing, I paint.

My painting is what I have to give back to the world for what the world gives to me.

Since I cannot sing, I paint.

If one could only reproduce nature, and always with less beauty than the original, why paint at all?