For Me, A Landscape Does Not Exist

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.

I've Spent So Long On Some Paintings That I No Longer Know What To Think Of Them, And I Am Definitely Getting Harder To Please; Nothing Satisfies Me.

I Do Have A Dream, A Tableau Of The Bathing Place Of La Grenouillère, For Which I've Done Some Bad Pochades (sketches), But It Is A Dream. Renoir, Who Have Just Spent A Couple Of Months Here, Also Wants To Paint This Subject.

When I Look At Nature I Feel As If I'll Be Able To Paint It All, Note It All Down, And Then You Might As Well Forget It Once You're Working.

My Heart Is Forever In Giverny.