“Gardening was something I learned in my youth when I was unhappy. I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.”

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 am good at only two things, and those are gardening and painting.

Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment.

I am enslaved to my work, always wanting the impossible, and never, I believe, have I been less favoured by the endlessly changeable weather.

To see we must forget the name of the thing we are looking at.

I can only draw what I see.

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.

I must have flowers, always, and always.

I’m not performing miracles, I’m using up and wasting a lot of paint.

Thanks to my work everything’s going well; it’s a great consolation.

If the world really looks like that I will paint no more!

My eyes were finally opened and I understood nature. I learned at the same time to love it.

I had so much fire in me and so many plans.

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.

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’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.

And when instead of flowers your heart grows thorns – that’s when you know it does not love.

Hear the universe sing with every shooting star, blooming petal, and pines in the wind- Love will find you.

The world was expecting her to be a beautiful flower. Society behaved in such a way that turned her into a fierce sword.

And like flowers under the sun’s yellow rays, you will bloom again.

Memories frozen and denied Flowers of my heart withered and dried.

Violets are blue, you have no clue how much I love you.

From all the flowers on the earth, she preferred to be a cactus-to bloom for the one, to push away the rest.

Of all the roses in the bush, you have the sharpest thorns.