Arrival = Prison, And The Artist Must

Truth And Reality In Art Do Not Arise Until You No Longer Understand What You Are Doing And Are Capable Of But Nevertheless Sense A Power That Grows In Proportion To Your Resistance.

I Have Always Sought To Be Understood And, While I Was Taken To Task By Critics Or Colleagues, I Thought They Were Right, Assuming I Had Not Been Clear Enough To Be Understood. This Assumption Allowed Me To Work My Whole Life Without Hatred And Even Without Bitterness Toward Criticism, Regardless Of Its Source. I Counted Solely On The Clarity Of Expression Of My Work To Gain My Ends. Hatred, Rancor, And The Spirit Of Vengeance Are Useless Baggage To The Artist. His Road Is Difficult Enough For Him To Cleanse His Soul Of Everything Which Could Make It More So.

Drawing Is Of The Spirit And Color Of The Senses.

Impressionism Is The Newspaper Of The Soul.

Colours Have Their Own Distinctive Beauty That You Have To Preserve, Just As In Music You Try To Preserve Sounds. It Is A Question Of Organization, Of Finding The Arrangement That Will Keep The Beauty And Freshness Of The Colour