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I didn't become an impressionist. As long as I can remember I always have been one.
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The creditors are proving impossible to deal with and short of a sudden appearance on the scene of wealthy art patrons, we are going to be turned out of this dear little house where I led a simple life and was able to work so well. I do not know what will become of us.
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By way of news, I can tell you that Couture, that bad-tempered fellow, has completely given up painting. It's no great pity; in this exhibition, he had some really bad paintings.
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I'm working hard with more determination than ever. My success at the Salon led to my selling several paintings and since your absence I have made 800 francs; I hope, when I have contracts with more dealers, it will be better still.
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The sea is superb, but the cliffs don't match up to those at Fecamp. Here I'll be certain to do more boats.
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I'm never finished with my paintings; the further I get, the more I seek the impossible and the more powerless I feel.
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Manet wanted one day to paint my wife and children. Renoir was there. He took a canvas and began painting them, too. After a while, Manet took me aside and whispered, 'You're on very good terms with Renoir and take an interest in his future - do advise him to give up painting! You can see for yourself that it's not his metier at all.
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I'm in fine fettle and fired with a desire to paint.
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For me, a landscape does not exist in its own right, since its appearance changes at every moment; but the surrounding atmosphere brings it to life - the light and the air which vary continually. For me, it is only the surrounding atmosphere which gives subjects their true value.
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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.
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The real subject of every painting is light.
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I insist upon 'doing it alone'. Much as I enjoyed making the trip there with Renoir as a tourist, I'd find it hard to work there together. I have always worked better alone and from my own impressions.. .If he Renoir knew I was about to go, Renoir would doubtless want to join me and that would be equally disastrous for both of us.
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It seems to me that when I see nature I see it ready-made, completely written - but then, try to do it!
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You'll understand, I'm sure that I'm chasing the merest sliver of color. It's my own fault. I want to grasp the intangible. It's terrible how the light runs out. Color, any color, lasts a second, sometimes 3 or 4 minutes at most.
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I can no longer work outside because of the intensity of the light.
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The richness I achieve comes from nature, the source of my inspiration.
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Getting up at 4 in the morning, I slave away all day until by the evening I'm exhausted, and I end by forgetting all my responsibilities, thinking only of the work I've set out to do.
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For me, a landscape does not exist in its own right, since its appearance changes at any moment.
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I work at my garden all the time and with love. What I need most are flowers, always. My heart is forever in Giverny.
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I'm continuing to work hard, not without periods of discouragement, but my strength comes back again.
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Every day I discover more and more beautiful things. It’s enough to drive one mad. I have such a desire to do everything, my head is bursting with it.
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The Thames was all gold. God it was beautiful, so fine that I began working a frenzy, following the sun and its reflections on the water.
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I've always refused requests even from friends to employ a technique I know nothing about.
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I have once more taken up things that can't be done: water with grasses weaving on the bottom. But I'm always tackling that sort of thing!