One Had To Immerse Oneself In One's

The Landscape Becomes Human, Becomes A Thinking, Living Being Within Me. I Become One With My Picture...we Merge In An Iridescent Chaos.

You Have To Hurry Up If You Want To See Something, Everything Disappears.

What I Am Trying To Translate To You Is More Mysterious, It Is Entwined In The Very Roots Of Being, In The Implacable Source Of Sensations.

I'd Like To Combine Melancholy And Sunshine... There's A Sadness In Provence Which No One Has Expressed... I'd Like To Put Reason In The Grass And Tears In The Sky, Like Poussin.

Talks On Art Are Almost Useless. The Work Which Goes To Bring Progress In One's Own Subject Is Sufficient Compensation For The Incomprehension Of Imbeciles.