Light Is A Thing That Cannot Be

Under This Fine Rain I Breathe In The Innocence Of The World. I Feel Coloured By The Nuances Of Infinity. At This Moment I Am One With My Picture. We Are An Iridescent Chaos.

All My Compatriots Are Asses Compared To Me.

One Is Neither Too Scrupulous Nor Too Sincere Nor Too Submissive To Nature; But One Is More Or Less Master Of One's Model, And, Above All, Of The Means Of Expression.

The Painter Unfolds That Which Has Not Been Seen.

An Optical Impression Is Produced On Our Organs Of Sight Which Makes Us Classify As Light, Half-tone Or Quartertone, The Surfaces Represented By Colour Sensations. So That Light Does Not Exist For The Painter.