Everyone Discusses My Art And Pretends To

My Aim Is To Give You Only The Things With Which I Am Completely Satisfied, Even If It Means Asking You A Little More [time] For Them... For If I Were To Do Otherwise I'd Turn Into A Mere Painting Machine And You Would Be Landed With A Pile Of Incomplete Work Which Would Put Off The Most Enthusiastic Of Art Collectors.

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.

I Am Enslaved To My Work, Always Wanting The Impossible, And Never, I Believe, Have I Been Less Favoured By The Endlessly Changeable Weather.

I Think Only Of My Painting, And If I Were To Drop It, I Think I'd Go Crazy.

I've Only Myself To Blame For It, My Impotence Most Of All And My Weakness. If I Do Any Good Work Now It Will Be Only By Chance.