I have a predilection for painting that lends joyousness to a wall.

The only reward one should offer an artist is to buy his work.

If the painter works directly from nature, he ultimately looks for nothing but momentary effects; he does not try to compose, and soon he gets monotonous.

A painter who has the feel of breasts and buttocks is saved.

One morning, one of us ran out of the black, it was the birth of Impressionism.

In painting, as in the other arts, there's not a single process, no matter how insignificant, which can be reasonably made into a formula. You come to nature with your theories, and she knocks them all flat.

What is to be done about these literary people, who will never understand that painting is a craft and that the material side comes first? The ideas come afterwards, when the picture is finished.