A work of art which did not begin in emotion is not art.
We live in a rainbow of chaos.
It is not about painting life, it is about making painting alive.
Painting from nature is not copying the object; it is realizing one's sensations.
Right now a moment of time is passing by!... We must become that moment.
Light is a thing that cannot be reproduced, but must be represented by something else - by color.
An art which isn't based on feeling isn't an art at all... feeling is the principle, the beginning and the end; craft, objective, technique - all these are in the middle.
Everything is about to disappear. You've got to hurry up if you still want to see things.
To paint is not to copy the object slavishly, it is to grasp a harmony among many relationships.
You must think. The eye is not enough; it needs to think as well.
The truth is in nature, and I shall prove it.
Art is a harmony parallel with nature.
I could paint for a hundred years, a thousand years without stopping and I would still feel as though I knew nothing.
Genius is the ability to renew one's emotions in daily experience.
Sometimes I imagine colors as if they were living ideas, being of pure reason with which to communicate. Nature is not on the surface, it is deep down.
All the theories mess you up inside.
Nature is the best instructor.
The most seductive thing about art is the personality of the artist himself.
Long live the sun which gives us such beautiful color.
Everything in nature takes its form from the sphere, the cone and the cylinder.
The awareness of our own strength makes us modest.
May I repeat what I told you here: treat nature by means of the cylinder, the sphere, the cone, everything brought into proper perspective so that each side of an object or a plane is directed towards a central point. Lines parallel to the horizon give breadth... lines perpendicular to this horizon give depth. But nature for us men is more depth than surface, whence the need to introduce into our light vibrations, represented by the reds and yellows, a sufficient amount of blueness to give the feel of air.
Shut your eyes, wait, think of nothing. Now, open them ... one sees nothing but a great coloured undulation. What then? An irradiation and glory of colour. This is what a picture should give us ... an abyss in which the eye is lost, a secret germination, a coloured state of grace ... loose conciousness. Descend with the painter into the dim tangled roots of things, and rise again from them in colours, be steeped in the light of them.
The landscape thinks itself in me and I am its consciousness.
What I am trying to translate to you is more mysterious, it is entwined in the very roots of being, in the implacable source of sensations.
