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My Garden Is A Slow Work, Pursued With Love And I Do Not Deny That I Am Proud Of It. Forty Years Ago, When I Established Myself Here, There Was Nothing But A Farmhouse And A Poor Orchard...i Bought The House And Little By Little I Enlarged And Organized It...i Dug, Planted Weeded, Myself; In The Evenings The Children Watered.

-Claude Monet

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My Garden Is A

Claude Monet

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My Garden Is A Slow Work, Pursued With Love And I Do Not Deny That I Am Proud Of It. Forty Years Ago, When I Established Myself Here, There Was Nothing But A Farmhouse And A Poor Orchard...i Bought The House And Little By Little I Enlarged And Organized It...i Dug, Planted Weeded, Myself; In The Evenings The Children Watered.

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More From Claude Monet

I Am Very Depressed And Deeply Disgusted With Painting. It Is Really A Continual Torture.

It Took Me Time To Understand My Water Lilies. I Had Planted Them For The Pleasure Of It; I Grew Them Without Ever Thinking Of Painting Them.

No, I'm Not A Great Painter. Neither Am I A Great Poet.

My Only Desire Is An Intimate Infusion With Nature, And The Only Fate I Wish Is To Have Worked And Lived In Harmony With Her Laws.

I Am Enslaved To My Work, Always Wanting The Impossible, And Never, I Believe, Have I Been Less Favoured By The Endlessly Changeable Weather.

It Goes Without Saying That I Will Do Anything At Any Price To Pull Myself Out Of A Situation Like This [rejection] So That I Can Start Work Immediately On My Next Salon Picture And Ensure That Such A Thing Should Not Happen Again.

It Is A Tragedy That We Live In A World Where Physical Courage Is So Common, And Moral Courage Is So Rare.

I Get Madder And Madder On Giving Back What I Feel.

When I Work I Forget All The Rest.

Think Of Me Getting Up Before 6, I'm At Work By 7 And I Continue Until 6.30 In The Evening, Standing Up All The Time, Nine Canvases. It's Murderous.

I'm In Fine Fettle And Fired With A Desire To Paint.

I Am Following Nature Without Being Able To Grasp Her, I Perhaps Owe Having Become A Painter To Flowers.

I Would Advise Young Artists To Paint As They Can, As Long As They Can, Without Being Afraid Of Painting Badly.

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.

Everything Changes, Even Stone.

Take Clear Water With Grass Waving At The Bottom. It's Wonderful To Look At, But To Try To Paint It Is Enough To Make One Insane.

My Aim Is To Give You Only The Things With Which I Am Completely Satisfied, Even If It Means Asking You A Little More [time] For Them... For If I Were To Do Otherwise I'd Turn Into A Mere Painting Machine And You Would Be Landed With A Pile Of Incomplete Work Which Would Put Off The Most Enthusiastic Of Art Collectors.

To Have Gone To All This Trouble To Get To This Is Just Too Stupid! Outside There's Brilliant Sunshine But I Don't Feel Up To Looking At It.

I Do Have A Dream, A Tableau Of The Bathing Place Of La Grenouillère, For Which I've Done Some Bad Pochades (sketches), But It Is A Dream. Renoir, Who Have Just Spent A Couple Of Months Here, Also Wants To Paint This Subject.

Now, More Than Ever, I Realize Just How Illusory My Undeserved Success Has Been. I Still Hold Out Some Hope Of Doing Better, But Age And Unhappiness Have Sapped My Strength.

I Let A Good Many Mistakes Show Through When Fixing My Sensations. It Will Always Be The Same And This Is What Makes Me Despair.

Paint What You Really See, Not What You Think You Ought To See; Not The Object Isolated As In A Test Tube, But The Object Enveloped In Sunlight And Atmosphere, With The Blue Dome Of Heaven Reflected In The Shadows.

Most People Think I Paint Fast. I Paint Very Slowly.

I'm Continuing To Work Hard, Not Without Periods Of Discouragement, But My Strength Comes Back Again.

It's On The Strength Of Observation And Reflection That One Finds A Way. So We Must Dig And Delve Unceasingly.

A Good Impression Is Lost So Quickly.

The Effect Of Sincerity Is To Give One's Work The Character Of A Protest. The Painter, Being Concerned Only With Conveying His Impression, Simply Seeks To Be Himself And No One Else.

One Is Too Taken Up With All That One Sees And Hears In Paris, However Strong One Is, And What I Do Here [in Etretat] Will At Least Have The Merit Of Being Unlike Anyone Else, At Least I Believe So, Because It Will Simply Be The Expression Of What I, And Only I, Have Felt.

I Insist Upon 'doing It Alone'... I Have Always Worked Better Alone And From My Own Impressions.

Color Is My Day-long Obsession, Joy And Torment. To Such An Extent Indeed That One Day, Finding Myself At The Deathbed Of A Woman Who Had Been And Still Was Very Dear To Me, I Caught Myself In The Act Of Focusing On Her Temples And Automatically Analyzing The Succession Of Appropriately Graded Colors Which Death Was Imposing On Her Motionless Face.

Techniques Vary, Art Stays The Same; It Is A Transposition Of Nature At Once Forceful And Sensitive.

I Intend To Do A Large Painting Of The Cliff At Etretat, Although It Is Terribly Bold Of Me To Do So After Courbet Has Painted It So Admirably, But I Will Try To Do It In A Different Way.

These Landscapes Of Water And Reflection Have Become An Obsession.

One Can Do Something If One Can See And Understand It.

Can Do Something

I've Spent So Long On Some Paintings That I No Longer Know What To Think Of Them, And I Am Definitely Getting Harder To Please; Nothing Satisfies Me.

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.

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!

It Would Be Asking Too Much To Want To Sell Only To Connoisseurs - That Way Starvation Lies.

I've Been Working So Hard That I'm Exhausted... I Feel I Won't Be Able To Do Without A Few Weeks' Rest, So I'm Going Off To See The Sea.

I Must Have Flowers, Always, And Always.

I Didn't Become An Impressionist. As Long As I Can Remember I Always Have Been One.

I Haven't Yet Managed To Capture The Colour Of This Landscape; There Are Moments When I'm Appalled At The Colours I'm Having To Use, I'm Afraid What I'm Doing Is Just Dreadful And Yet I Really Am Understating It; The Light Is Simply Terrifying.

To See We Must Forget The Name Of The Thing We Are Looking At.

For Me, A Landscape Does Not Exist In Its Own Right, Since Its Appearance Changes At Any Moment.

By The Single Example Of This Painter Devoted To His Art With Such Independence, My Destiny As A Painter Opened Out To Me.

If The World Really Looks Like That I Will Paint No More!

All Of A Sudden I Had The Revelation Of How Enchanting My Pond Was.

When You Go Out To Paint, Try To Forget What Objects You Have Before You - A Tree, House, A Field....merely Think, Here Is A Little Square Of Blue, Here An Oblong Of Pink, Here A Streak Of Yellow, And Paint It Just As It Looks To You, The Exact Color And Shape, Until It Gives Your Own Naive Impression Of The Scene Before You.

It Was At Home I Learned The Little I Know. Schools Always Appeared To Me Like A Prison, And Never Could I Make Up My Mind To Stay There, Not Even For Four Hours A Day, When The Sunshine Was Inviting, The Sea Smooth, And When It Was Joy To Run About The Cliffs In The Free Air, Or To Paddle In The Water.

I Waited For The Idea To Consolidate, For The Grouping And Composition Of Themes To Settle Themselves In My Brain.

The Point Is To Know How To Use The Colours, The Choice Of Which Is, When All's Said And Done, A Matter Of Habit.

I've Always Refused Requests Even From Friends To Employ A Technique I Know Nothing About.

As For Myself, I Met With As Much Success As I Ever Could Have Wanted. In Other Words, I Was Enthusiastically Run-down By Every Critic Of The Period.

Despite My Extremely Modest Prices, Dealers And Art Lovers Are Turning Their Backs On Me. It Is Very Depressing To See The Lack Of Interest Shown In An Art Object Which Has No Market Value.

Light Is The Most Important Person In The Picture.

For Me, The Subject Is Of Secondary Importance: I Want To Convey What Is Alive Between Me And The Subject.

I'm Not Lacking For Enthusiasm As You Can See, Given That I Have Something Like 65 Canvases Covered With Paint And I'll Be Needing More Since The Place Is Quite Out Of The Ordinary; So I'm Going To Order Some More Canvases.

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.

I'm Not Performing Miracles, I'm Using Up And Wasting A Lot Of Paint.

I Still Don't Know Where I Am Going To Sleep Tomorrow.

Color Is My Day-long Obsession, Joy And Torment.

Work Is Nearly Always A Torture. If I Could Find Something Else I Would Be Much Happier, Because I Could Use This Other Interest As A Form Of Relaxation. Now I Cannot Relax.

These Landscapes Of Water And Reflections Have Become An Obsession. It's Quite Beyond My Powers At My Age, And Yet I Want To Succeed In Expressing What I Feel.

Pictures Aren't Made Out Of Doctrines. Since The Appearance Of Impressionism, The Official Salons, Which Used To Be Brown, Have Become Blue, Green, And Red...but Peppermint Or Chocolate, They Are Still Confections.

What Is It That's Taken Hold Of Me, For Me To Carry On Like This In Relentless Pursuit Of Something Beyond My Powers?

Relentless Pursuit

The Real Subject Of Every Painting Is Light.

It Really Is Appallingly Difficult To Do Something Which Is Complete In Every Respect, And I Think Most People Are Content With Mere Approximations. Well, My Dear Friend, I Intend To Battle On, Scrape Off And Start Again.

Ninety Per Cent Of The Theory Of Impressionist Painting Is In . . . Ruskin's Elements.

It Is Better To Have Done Something Than To Have Been Someone.

The More I Live, The More I Regret How Little I Know

Despite My Exhaustion I Have A Devil Of A Time Getting To Sleep Because Of The Rats Above My Bed And A Pig Who Lives Beneath My Room.

For Almost Two Months Now I've Been Struggling Away With No Result.

Nothing In The Whole World Is Of Interest To Me But My Painting And My Flowers.

Thanks To My Work Everything's Going Well; It's A Great Consolation.

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.

It Is Only Too Easy To Catch People's Attention By Doing Something Worse Than Anyone Else Has Dared To Do It Before.

I'm Quite Content: Although What I'm Doing Is Far From Being As I Should Like, I Am Complemented Often Enough All The Same.

What Could Be Said About Me...a Man To Whom Only His Painting Matters? And Of Course His Garden And His Flowers As Well.

I Say That Whoever Claims To Have Finished A Canvas Is Terribly Arrogant.

Zaandam Has Enough To Paint For A Lifetime.

Now I Really Feel The Landscape, I Can Be Bold And Include Every Tone Of Pink And Blue: It's Enchanting, It's Delicious, And I Hope It Will Please You.

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.

I Never Draw Except With Brush And Paint.

Nature Won't Be Summoned To Order And Won't Be Kept Waiting. It Must Be Caught, Well Caught.

I'm Never Finished With My Paintings; The Further I Get, The More I Seek The Impossible And The More Powerless I Feel.

I Will Bring Lots Of Studies Back With Me So I Can Work On Some Big Things At Home.

I've Said It Before And Can Only Repeat That I Owe Everything To Boudin And I Attribute My Success To Him. I Came To Be Fascinated By His Studies, The Products Of What I Call Instantaneity.

I'm Getting So Slow At My Work It Makes Me Despair, But... I'm Increasingly Obsessed By The Need To Render What I Experience, And I'm Praying That I'll Have A Few More Good Years Left To Me.

I Have Made Tremendous Efforts To Work In A Darker Register And Express The Sinister And Tragic Quality Of The Place, Given My Natural Tendency To Work In Light And Pale Tones.

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.

One Day Boudin Said To Me, 'learn To Draw Well And Appreciate The Sea, The Light, The Blue Sky.' I Took His Advice.

Listening Only To My Instincts, I Discovered Superb Things.

Never, Even As A Child, Would I Bend To A Rule.

While Adding The Finishing Touches To A Painting Might Appear Insignificant, It Is Much Harder To Do Than One Might Suppose.

I Still Have A Lot Of Pleasure Doing Them, But As Time Goes By I Come To Appreciate More Clearly Which Paintings Are Good And Which Should Be Discarded.

I Am Good At Only Two Things, And Those Are Gardening And Painting.

It's The Hardest Thing To Be Alone In Being Satisfied With What One's Done.

I'm Knocked Out, I've Never Felt So Physically And Mentally Exhausted, I'm Quite Stupid With It And Long Only For Bed; But I Am Happy.

One's Better Off Alone, And Yet There Are So Many Things That Are Impossible To Fathom On One's Own. In Fact It's A Terrible Business And The Task Is A Hard One.

I Can No Longer Work Outside Because Of The Intensity Of The Light.

I Want The Unobtainable. Other Artists Paint A Bridge, A House, A Boat, And That's The End. They Are Finished. I Want To Paint The Air Which Surrounds The Bridge, The House, The Boat, The Beauty Of The Air In Which These Objects Are Located, And That Is Nothing Short Of Impossible.

Lots Of People Will Protest That It's Quite Unreal And That I'm Out Of My Mind, But That's Just Too Bad

I'm Very Happy, Very Delighted. I'm Setting To Like A Fighting Cockerel, For I'm Surrounded Here By All That I Love.

I Know Well Enough In Advance That You'll Find My Paintings Perfect. I Know That If They Are Exhibited They'll Be A Great Success, But I Couldn't Be More Indifferent To It Since I Know They Are Bad, I'm Certain Of It.

I'm Enjoying The Most Perfect Tranquillity, Free From All Worries, And In Consequence Would Like To Stay This Way Forever, In A Peaceful Corner Of The Countryside Like This.

When I Look At Nature I Feel As If I'll Be Able To Paint It All, Note It All Down, And Then You Might As Well Forget It Once You're Working.

I Think Only Of My Painting, And If I Were To Drop It, I Think I'd Go Crazy.

I Despise The Opinion Of The Press And The So-called Critics.

What Can Be Said About A Man Who Is Interested In Nothing But His Painting? It's A Pity If A Man Can Only Interest Himself In One Thing. But I Can't Do Any Thing Else. I Have Only One Interest.

I Would Love To Do Orange And Lemon Trees Silhouetted Against The Blue Sea, But I Cannot Find Them The Way I Want Them.

Gardening Was Something I Learned In My Youth When I Was Unhappy. I Perhaps Owe Having Become A Painter To Flowers.

I Know That To Paint The Sea Really Well, You Need To Look At It Every Hour Of Every Day In The Same Place So That You Can Understand Its Way In That Particular Spot; And That Is Why I Am Working On The Same Motifs Over And Over Again, Four Or Six Times Even.

Canvases Between 8 Centimetres And 1 Metre Are Priced Around 25,000 Francs. In The Past I Used To Sell Them From Between 50 To 100 Francs At The Most. I Have To Say... That I Feel Somewhat Embarrassed At This Admission.

I Sometimes Feel Ashamed That I Am Devoting Myself To Artistic Pursuits While So Many Of Our People Are Suffering And Dying For Us. It's True That Fretting Never Did Any Good.

My Rejection At The Salon Brought An End To My Hesitation [to Settle In Paris] Since After This Failure I Can No Longer Claim To Cope... Alas, That Fatal Rejection Has Virtually Taken The Bread Out Of My Mouth.

My Work Is Always Better When I Am Alone And Follow My Own Impressions.

I'm In A Foul Mood As I'm Making Stupid Mistakes... This Morning I Lost Beyond Repair A Painting With Which I Had Been Happy, Having Done About Twenty Sessions On It; It Had To Be Thoroughly Scraped Away... What A Rage I Was In!

My Garden Is A Slow Work, Pursued With Love And I Do Not Deny That I Am Proud Of It. Forty Years Ago, When I Established Myself Here, There Was Nothing But A Farmhouse And A Poor Orchard...i Bought The House And Little By Little I Enlarged And Organized It...i Dug, Planted Weeded, Myself; In The Evenings The Children Watered.

My Heart Is Forever In Giverny.

All I Did Was To Look At What The Universe Showed Me, To Let My Brush Bear Witness To It.

Colors Pursue Me Like A Constant Worry. They Even Worry Me In My Sleep.

No One But Myself Knows The Anxiety I Go Through And The Trouble I Give Myself To Finish Paintings Which Do Not Satisfy Me And Seem To Please So Very Few Others.

I Want To Paint The Air In Which The Bridge, The House And The Boat Are To Be Found - The Beauty Of The Air Around Them, And That Is Nothing Less Than The Impossible.

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.

My Life Has Been Nothing But A Failure.

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.

The Light Constantly Changes, And That Alters The Atmosphere And Beauty Of Things Every Minute.

If Only The Weather Would Improve, There'd Be Hope Of Some Work, But Every Day Brings Rain.

I See Less And Less... I Need To Avoid Lateral Light, Which Darkens My Colors. Nevertheless, I Always Paint At The Times Of Day Most Propitious For Me, As Long As My Paint Tubes And Brushes Are Not Mixed Up... I Will Paint Almost Blind, As Beethoven Composed Completely Deaf.

It Is Difficult To Stop In Time Because One Gets Carried Away. But I Have That Strength; It Is The Only Strength I Have.

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.

The Only Merit I Have Is To Have Painted Directly From Nature With The Aim Of Conveying My Impressions In Front Of The Most Fugitive Effects.

I Haven't Many Years Left Ahead Of Me And I Must Devote All My Time To Painting, In The Hope Of Achieving Something Worthwhile In The End, Something If Possible That Will Satisfy Me.

Everyone Discusses My Art And Pretends To Understand, As If It Were Necessary To Understand, When It Is Simply Necessary To Love.

The Richness I Achieve Comes From Nature, The Source Of My Inspiration.

I Would Like To Paint The Way A Bird Sings.

I Do What I Can To Convey What I Experience Before Nature And Most Often, In Order To Succeed In Conveying What I Feel, I Totally Forget The Most Elementary Rules Of Painting, If They Exist That Is.

When It Is Dark, It Seems To Me As If I Were Dying, And I Can't Think Any More.

Perhaps It's True That I'm Very Hard On Myself, But That's Better Than Exhibiting Mediocre Work... Too Few Were Satisfactory Enough To Trouble The Public With.

Impressionism Is Only Direct Sensation. All Great Painters Were Less Or More Impressionists. It Is Mainly A Question Of Instinct, And Much Simpler Than [john Singer] Sargent Thinks.

My Eyes Were Finally Opened And I Understood Nature. I Learned At The Same Time To Love It.

I'm Going To Get Down To A Still Life On A Size 50 Canvas Of Rayfish And Dogfish With Old Fishermen's Baskets. Then I'm Going To Turn Out A Few Pictures To Send Wherever Possible, Given That Now, First And Foremost - Unfortunately - I Have To Earn Some Money.

I've Only Myself To Blame For It, My Impotence Most Of All And My Weakness. If I Do Any Good Work Now It Will Be Only By Chance.

It Would Be A Very Bad Idea... To Exhibit Even A Small Number Of This New Series, As The Whole Effect Can Only Be Achieved From An Exhibition Of The Entire Group.

It's Enough To Drive You Crazy, Trying To Depict The Weather, The Atmosphere, The Ambience.

I Had So Much Fire In Me And So Many Plans.

I've Done What I Could As A Painter And That Seems To Me To Be Sufficient. I Don't Want To Be Compared To The Great Masters Of The Past, And My Painting Is Open To Criticism; That's Enough.

You Might Perhaps Like To See The Few Canvases I Was Able To Save From The Bailiffs And The Rest, Since I Thought You Might Be So Good As To Help Me A Little, As I Am In Quite A Desperate State, And The Worst Is That I Can No Longer Even Work.

Apart From Painting And Gardening, I'm Not Good At Anything.

I Perhaps Owe Having Become A Painter To Flowers.

One Day I Am Satisfied, The Next Day I Find It All Bad; Still I Hope That Some Day I Will Find Some Of Them Good.

It Seems To Me That When I See Nature I See It Ready-made, Completely Written - But Then, Try To Do It!

No One Is An Artist Unless He Carries His Picture In His Head Before Painting It, And Is Sure Of His Method And Composition.

I Don’t Think I’m Made For Any Earthly Kind Of Pleasure.

My Garden Is My Most Beautiful Masterpiece

I Work At My Garden All The Time And With Love. What I Need Most Are Flowers, Always. My Heart Is Forever In Giverny.

Without The Fog, London Would Not Be A Beautiful City. It Is Fog That Gives It Its Magnificent Amplitude...its Regular And Massive Blocks Become Grandiose In That Mysterious Mantle.

Critic Asks: 'and What, Sir, Is The Subject Matter Of That Painting?' - 'the Subject Matter, My Dear Good Fellow, Is The Light.

What I Need Most Of All Is Color, Always, Always.

I Can Only Draw What I See.

I Am Pleased With The Exhibition... Everything On Display Was Sold For A Good Price To Decent People. It Has Been A Long Time Since I Believed That You Could Educate Public Taste.

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