My life has been nothing but a failure.
Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment.
Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love.
I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.
No one is an artist unless he carries his picture in his head before painting it, and is sure of his method and composition.
People discuss my art and pretend to understand as if it were necessary to understand, when it's simply necessary to love.
I am following Nature without being able to grasp her, I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.