One Day I Am Satisfied, The Next

No One Is An Artist Unless He Carries His Picture In His Head Before Painting It, And Is Sure Of His Method And Composition.

Now, More Than Ever, I Realize Just How Illusory My Undeserved Success Has Been. I Still Hold Out Some Hope Of Doing Better, But Age And Unhappiness Have Sapped My Strength.

It Was At Home I Learned The Little I Know. Schools Always Appeared To Me Like A Prison, And Never Could I Make Up My Mind To Stay There, Not Even For Four Hours A Day, When The Sunshine Was Inviting, The Sea Smooth, And When It Was Joy To Run About The Cliffs In The Free Air, Or To Paddle In The Water.

It Is Better To Have Done Something Than To Have Been Someone.

By The Single Example Of This Painter Devoted To His Art With Such Independence, My Destiny As A Painter Opened Out To Me.