The landscape becomes human, becomes a thinking, living being within me. I become one with my picture...we merge in an iridescent chaos.
The clear French landscape is as pure as a verse of Racine.
I have sworn to die painting.
The landscape thinks itself in me and I am its consciousness.
It's so fine and yet so terrible to stand in front of a blank canvas.
Tell me, do you think I'm going mad? I sometimes wonder, you know.