I Advance All Of My Canvas At

Tell Me, Do You Think I'm Going Mad? I Sometimes Wonder, You Know.

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

I Wish To Die Painting.

The Sun Penetrates Me Soundlessly Like A Distant Friend That Stirs Up My Laziness, Fertilizes It. We Bring Forth Life.

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.