The Landscape Becomes Human, Becomes A Thinking,

The Painter Must Enclose Himself Within His Work; He Must Respond Not With Words, But With Paintings.

Surely, A Single Bunch Of Carrots Painted Naively, Just As We Personally See It, Is Worth All The Endless Banalities Of The Schools, All Those Dreary Pictures Concocted Out Of Tobacco Juice According To Time-honored Formulas?

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.

Fruits ... Like Having Their Portrait Painted. They Seem To Sit There And Ask Your Forgiveness For Fading. Their Thought Is Given Off With Their Perfumes. They Come With All Their Scents, They Speak Of The Fields They Have Left, The Rain Which Has Nourished Them, The Daybreaks They Have Seen.

What Is One To Think Of Those Fools Who Tell One That The Artist Is Always Subordinate To Nature? Art Is A Harmony Parallel With Nature.