I know I can not paint a flower, I can not paint the sun on the desert on a bright summer morning but maybe in terms of paint colour I can convey to you my experience of the flower or the experience that makes the flower of significance to me at that particular time.
Color is one of the great things in the world that makes life worth living to me and as I have come to think of painting it is my efforts to create an equivalent with paint color for the world, life as I see it.
When I think of death, I only regret that I will not be able to see this beautiful country anymore unless the Indians are right and my spirit will walk here after I’m gone.
All the earth colours of the painter’s palette are out there in the many miles of badlands...
I am not an exponent of expressionism. I don’t know exactly what that means, but I don’t like the sound of it. I dislike cults and isms. I want to paint in terms of my own thinking and feeling.
I always have a curious sort of feeling about some of my things – I hate to show them – I am perfectly inconsistent about it – I am afraid people won’t understand – and I hope they won’t – and am afraid they will.
It seems to be my mission in life to wait on a dog.
Interest is the most important thing in life; happiness is temporary, but interest is continuous.
I don’t see why we ever think of what others think of what we do – no matter who they are. Isn’t it enough just to express yourself?
I got half-a-dozen paintings from that shattered plate.
My first memory is of light – the brightness of light – light all around.
I’m frightened all the time. But I never let it stop me. Never!
If you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it’s your world for a moment.
I think it’s so foolish for people to want to be happy. Happy is so momentary – you’re happy for an instant and then you start thinking again. Interest is the most important thing in life; happiness is temporary, but interest is continuous.
I can’t live where I want to, I can’t go where I want to go, I can’t do what I want to, I can’t even say what I want to. I decided I was a very stupid fool not to at least paint as I wanted to.
It was in the 1920s, when nobody had time to reflect, that I saw a still-life painting with a flower that was perfectly exquisite, but so small you really could not appreciate it.
I often painted fragments of things because it seemed to make my statement as well as or better than the whole could.
I know now that most people are so closely concerned with themselves that they are not aware of their own individuality, I can see myself, and it has helped me to say what I want to say in paint.
Marks on paper are free – free speech – press – pictures all go together I suppose.
You get whatever accomplishment you are willing to declare.