There is no such thing as an ugly woman.
There is but one Paris and however hard living may be here, and if it became worse and harder even – the French air clears up the brain and does good – a world of good.
There is peace even in the storm.
As practice makes perfect, I cannot but make progress; each drawing one makes, each study one paints, is a step forward.
I am unable to describe exactly what is the matter with me; now and then there are horrible fits of anxiety, apparently without cause, or otherwise a feeling of emptiness and fatigue in the head.
Exaggerate the essential, leave the obvious vague.
There may be a great fire in our hearts, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke.
Still, there is a calm, pure harmony, and music inside of me.
When I have a terrible need of – shall I say the word – religion. Then I go out and paint the stars.
I am not an adventurer by choice but by fate.
The uglier, older, meaner, iller, poorer I get, the more I wish to take my revenge by doing brilliant color, well arranged, resplendent.
To do good work one must eat well, be well housed, have one’s fling from time to time, smoke one’s pipe, and drink one’s coffee in peace.
To express a marriage of two complementary colors, their mingling and their opposition, the mysterious vibrations of kindred tones...
Painting is a faith, and it imposes the duty to disregard public opinion.
The sadness will last forever.
Drawing is the root of everything.
Poetry surrounds us everywhere, but putting it on paper is, alas, not so easy as looking at it.
Someday death will take us to another star.
Let’s not forget that the little emotions are the great captains of our lives and we obey them without realizing it.
One may have a blazing hearth in one’s soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way.