For me, the subject is of secondary importance: I want to convey what is alive between me and the subject.
My only desire is an intimate infusion with nature, and the only fate I wish is to have worked and lived in harmony with her laws.
It took me time to understand my water lilies. I had planted them for the pleasure of it; I grew them without ever thinking of painting them.
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.
I'm not performing miracles, I'm using up and wasting a lot of paint.
My eyes were finally opened and I understood nature. I learned at the same time to love it.
I'm enjoying the most perfect tranquillity, free from all worries, and in consequence would like to stay this way forever, in a peaceful corner of the countryside like this.
The older I become the more I realize of that I have to work very hard to reproduce what I search: the instantaneous. The influence of the atmosphere on the things and the light scattered throughout.
Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment.
I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.
Take clear water with grass waving at the bottom. It's wonderful to look at, but to try to paint it is enough to make one insane.
Nature won't be summoned to order and won't be kept waiting. It must be caught, well caught.
the more I live, the more I regret how little i know
I know that to paint the sea really well, you need to look at it every hour of every day in the same place so that you can understand its way in that particular spot; and that is why I am working on the same motifs over and over again, four or six times even.
My work is always better when I am alone and follow my own impressions.
I had so much fire in me and so many plans.
Now I really feel the landscape, I can be bold and include every tone of pink and blue: it's enchanting, it's delicious, and I hope it will please you.
I didn't become an impressionist. As long as I can remember I always have been one.
It's the hardest thing to be alone in being satisfied with what one's done.
I'm continuing to work hard, not without periods of discouragement, but my strength comes back again.
Without the fog, London would not be a beautiful city. It is fog that gives it its magnificent amplitude...its regular and massive blocks become grandiose in that mysterious mantle.
One can do something if one can see and understand it.
My life has been nothing but a failure.
I am very depressed and deeply disgusted with painting. It is really a continual torture.
Techniques vary, art stays the same; it is a transposition of nature at once forceful and sensitive.
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