A tree against the sky possesses the same interest, the same character, the same expression as the figure of a human.
For me, painting is a way to forget life. It is a cry in the night, a strangled laugh.
My only objective is to paint a Christ so moving that those who see him will be converted.
Subjective artists are one-eyed, but objective artists are blind.
Nothing is old, nothing is new, save the light of grace underneath which beats a human heart. The way of feeling, of understanding, of loving; the way of seeing the country, the faces that your father saw, that your mother knew. The rest is chimerical.
In these gaudy times, we think we will shortly reach the point where everything is known, but the fact is we are ignoring the essential, which is love of all living things, of all beauty both visible and hidden.
The conscience of an artist worthy of the name is like an incurable disease which causes him endless torment but occasionally fills him with silent joy.
The artist discards all theories, both his own and those of others. He forgets everything when he is in front of his canvas.
Anyone can revolt. It is more difficult silently to obey our own inner promptings, and to spend our lives finding sincere and fitting means of expression for our temperament and our gifts.
I am a believer and a conformist. Anyone can revolt; it is much more difficult to obey our inner promptings.
The richness of the world, all artificial pleasures, have the taste of sickness and give off a smell of death in the face of certain spiritual possessions.
Nothing is old, nothing is new, save the light of grace underneath which beats a human heart.
Like the ostrich, head under wingWhen the roaring storm breaks,So many people take refugeUnder the soft pillowOf specious arguments.
Often pagans, with their eyes wide open, do not see very clearly.
I am a believer and a conformist.
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