Painting Is A Jeu D'esprit.

I Go For A Walk In The Forest Of Fontainebleau. I Get 'green' Indigestion. I Must Get Rid Of This Sensation Into A Picture. Green Rules It. A Painter Paints To Unload Himself Of Feelings And Visions.

But When I Am Alone, I Do Not Have The Effrontery To Consider Myself An Artist At All, Not In The Grand Old Meaning Of The Word: Giotto, Titian, Rembrandt, Goya Were Great Painters. I Am Only A Public Clown-a Mountebank. I Have Understood My Time And Have Exploited The Imbecility, The Vanity, The Greed Of My Contemporaries. It Is A Bitter Confession, This Confession Of Mine, More Painful Than It May Seem. But At Least And At Last It Does Have The Merit Of Being Honest.

There Are Chemists Who Spend Their Whole Lives Trying To Find Out What's In A Lump Of Sugar. I Want To Know One Thing. What Is Color?

Age Only Matters When One Is Aging. Now That I Have Arrived At A Great Age, I Might As Well Be Twenty.

There Are Only Two Types Of Women - Goddesses And Doormats.