It's not just about looking and copying, it's about feeling too
Time and reflection change the sight little by little 'till we come to understand.
The landscape thinks itself in me and I am its consciousness.
There are two things in the painter, the eye and the mind; each of them should aid the other.
Right now a moment of time is fleeting by! Capture its reality in paint! To do that we must put all else out of our minds. We must become that moment, make ourselves a sensitive recording plate...Give the image of what we actually see, forgetting everything that has been seen before our time.
Fruits ... like having their portrait painted. They seem to sit there and ask your forgiveness for fading. Their thought is given off with their perfumes. They come with all their scents, they speak of the fields they have left, the rain which has nourished them, the daybreaks they have seen.
With an apple I will astonish Paris.
The painter unfolds that which has not been seen.
If I were called upon to define briefly the word Art, I should call it the reproduction of what the senses preceive in nature, seen through the veil of the soul.
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.
I have not tried to reproduce nature; I have represented it.
If I think, everything is lost.
Nature is more depth than surface, the colours are the expressions on the surface of this depth; they rise up from the roots of the world.
For an Impressionist to paint from nature is not to paint the subject, but to realize sensations.
Time and reflection... modify, little by little, our vision, and at last comprehension comes to us.
Under this fine rain I breathe in the innocence of the world. I feel coloured by the nuances of infinity. At this moment I am one with my picture. We are an iridescent chaos.
I owe you the truth in painting, and I will tell it to you.
A puny body weakens the soul.
There is no model, there is only color.
Shadow is a colour as light is, but less brilliant; light and shadow are only the relation of two tones.
Painting is damned difficult - you always think you've got it, but you haven't.
I've come to the conclusion that it's not really possible to help others.
Everything vanishes, falls apart, doesn't it? Nature is always the same but nothing in her that appears to us lasts. Our art must render the thrill of her permanence, along with her elements, the appearance of all her changes. It must give us a taste of her Eternity.
The landscape becomes human, becomes a thinking, living being within me. I become one with my picture...we merge in an iridescent chaos.
Keep good company - that is, go to the Louvre.
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