The More I Live, The More I

Color Is My Day-long Obsession, Joy And Torment. To Such An Extent Indeed That One Day, Finding Myself At The Deathbed Of A Woman Who Had Been And Still Was Very Dear To Me, I Caught Myself In The Act Of Focusing On Her Temples And Automatically Analyzing The Succession Of Appropriately Graded Colors Which Death Was Imposing On Her Motionless Face.

To Have Gone To All This Trouble To Get To This Is Just Too Stupid! Outside There's Brilliant Sunshine But I Don't Feel Up To Looking At It.

Manet Wanted One Day To Paint My Wife And Children. Renoir Was There. He Took A Canvas And Began Painting Them, Too. After A While, Manet Took Me Aside And Whispered, 'you're On Very Good Terms With Renoir And Take An Interest In His Future - Do Advise Him To Give Up Painting! You Can See For Yourself That It's Not His Metier At All.

While Adding The Finishing Touches To A Painting Might Appear Insignificant, It Is Much Harder To Do Than One Might Suppose.

It Seems To Me That When I See Nature I See It Ready-made, Completely Written - But Then, Try To Do It!