I despise the opinion of the press and the so-called critics.
It’s the hardest thing to be alone in being satisfied with what one’s done.
It seems to me that when I see nature I see it ready-made, completely written – but then, try to do it!
Despite my extremely modest prices, dealers and art lovers are turning their backs on me. It is very depressing to see the lack of interest shown in an art object which has no market value.
For me, a landscape does not exist in its own right, since its appearance changes at any moment.
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.
I work at my garden all the time and with love. What I need most are flowers, always. My heart is forever in Giverny.
Techniques vary, art stays the same; it is a transposition of nature at once forceful and sensitive.
I will bring lots of studies back with me so I can work on some big things at home.
You’ll understand, I’m sure that I’m chasing the merest sliver of color. It’s my own fault. I want to grasp the intangible. It’s terrible how the light runs out. Color, any color, lasts a second, sometimes 3 or 4 minutes at most...
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...
You might perhaps like to see the few canvases I was able to save from the bailiffs and the rest, since I thought you might be so good as to help me a little, as I am in quite a desperate state, and the worst is that I can no longer even work.
Think of me getting up before 6, I’m at work by 7 and I continue until 6.30 in the evening, standing up all the time, nine canvases. It’s murderous...
The effect of sincerity is to give one’s work the character of a protest. The painter, being concerned only with conveying his impression, simply seeks to be himself and no one else.
I intend to do a large painting of the cliff at Etretat, although it is terribly bold of me to do so after Courbet has painted it so admirably, but I will try to do it in a different way...
What can be said about a man who is interested in nothing but his painting? It’s a pity if a man can only interest himself in one thing. But I can’t do any thing else. I have only one interest.
A good impression is lost so quickly...
I’ve only myself to blame for it, my impotence most of all and my weakness. If I do any good work now it will be only by chance.
I’m very happy, very delighted. I’m setting to like a fighting cockerel, for I’m surrounded here by all that I love.
Thanks to my work everything’s going well; it’s a great consolation.