The great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together. And great things are not something accidental, but must certainly be willed.

I know for sure that I have an instinct for color, and that it will come to me more and more, that painting is in the very marrow of my bones.

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?

If one hasn't a horse, one is one's own horse.

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

Spring is the fresh green of young corn and the pink blush of blossoms. Autumn contrasts the yellowed foilage with violet hues. Winter is the white of snow against its black forms ... Summer is the contrast of blues and the golden bronze of the corn.

I am risking my life for my work, and half my reason has gone.