I Have A Horror Of People Who

If You're Stuck In A Painting, Then Stop And Draw Something Else. Draw A Flower And Put Your Love Into That Flower. Then Your Powers Will Come Back Again.

I Go For A Walk In The Forest Of Fontainebleau. I Get 'green' Indigestion. I Must Get Rid Of This Sensation Into A Picture. Green Rules It. A Painter Paints To Unload Himself Of Feelings And Visions.

Sex And Art Are The Same Thing.

You Mustn't Always Believe What I Say. Questions Tempt You To Tell Lies, Particularly When There Is No Answer.

But When I Am Alone, I Do Not Have The Effrontery To Consider Myself An Artist At All, Not In The Grand Old Meaning Of The Word: Giotto, Titian, Rembrandt, Goya Were Great Painters. I Am Only A Public Clown-a Mountebank. I Have Understood My Time And Have Exploited The Imbecility, The Vanity, The Greed Of My Contemporaries. It Is A Bitter Confession, This Confession Of Mine, More Painful Than It May Seem. But At Least And At Last It Does Have The Merit Of Being Honest.