As a suffering creature, I cannot do without something greater than I—something that is my life—the power to create.

I want to touch people with my art. I want them to say “he feels deeply; he feels tenderly.”

I experience a period of frightening clarity in those moments when nature is so beautiful. I am no longer sure of myself, and the paintings appear as in a dream.

I’ve failed again!

Just dash something down if you see a blank canvas staring at you with a certain imbecility. You do not know how paralyzing it is, that staring of a blank canvas, which says to the painter: you don’t know anything.

Even the knowledge of my own fallibility cannot keep me from making mistakes. Only when I fall do I get up again.

In spite of everything I shall rise again: I will take up my pencil, which I have forsaken in my great discouragement, and I will go on with my drawing.

I put my heart and my soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process.

An artist needn’t be a clergyman or a churchwarden, but he certainly must have a warm heart for his fellow men.

The heart of man is very much like the sea, it has its storms, it has its tides and in its depths it has its pearls too.