Many people seem to think it foolish, even superstitious, to believe that the world could still change for the better. And it is true that in winter it is sometimes so bitingly cold that one is tempted to say, 'What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.' Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an end to the bitter frosts. One morning the wind turns, and there is a thaw. And so I must still have hope.

The more I think about it, the more I realize there is nothing more artistic than to love others.

Love always causes trouble, that's true, but in its favour, it energizes.

I wish they would take me as I am.

It seems to me it's a painter's duty to try to put an idea into his work.

I have a firm faith in art, a firm confidence in its being a powerful stream which carries a man to a harbor, though he himself must do his bit too.

There are colors which cause each other to shine brilliantly, which form a couple which complete each other like man and woman.