I Am A Pupil Of Pissarro.

I Am Still Searching For The Expression Of Those Confused Sensations That We Bring With Us At Birth.

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.

An Art Which Isn't Based On Feeling Isn't An Art At All.

Chatter About Art Is Almost Always Useless.

The Sun Penetrates Me Soundlessly Like A Distant Friend That Stirs Up My Laziness, Fertilizes It. We Bring Forth Life.