Whatever plan one makes, there is a hidden difficulty somewhere.

Van Gogh was so under appreciated in his time, he sold only one of his 900 paintings while alive. Posthumously, he became one of the most famous artists of all time and his work is now considered priceless. Oh the irony.

The sight of stars makes me dream.

I felt my energy return and that I said to myself, in any event I'll recover from it, I'll pick up my pencil that I put down in my great discouragement and I'll get back to drawing, and from then on, it seems to me, everything has changed for me.

The more ugly, older, more cantankerous, more ill and poorer I become, the more I try to make amends by making my colours more vibrant, more balanced and beaming.

What preys on my mind is simply this one question: what am I good for, could I not be of service or use in some way?

My brushwork is quite unsystematic. I slam the paint on in all sorts of ways and leave each result to take care of itself.