I'm sending this letter along with that of your dear daughter Anna, my dear colleague in the arts, in order to tell you of my deep affection for her.
Now, consider carefully which you would rather do, so that later you will not regret your decision
I am literally penniless here, obliged to petition people, almost to beg for my keep, not having a penny to buy canvas and paints . . .
For 2 months I’ve been working on a large sculpture , and I dare believe that it’s the best thing I’ve done up to now ... A monster who looks like me is taking the hand of a naked woman —
A certain ennui is always with me, and when I forget my sorrow for a moment it’s because I’ve had a drink.
I quite like the subject of violent exercise. It makes the most surprising painting you can imagine.
Nature has more depth than surface, hence the need to introduce in our vibrations of light, represented by reds and yellows, enough blue tints to give a feeling of air.
The armistice has just been rejected, so the war will carry on worse than before - I've often regretted sending you away from Paris, but now I'm glad I did. I'm joining the artillery and will be stationed at the Porte de Saint-Ouen...
I went to see Monet yesterday and found him in despair and absolutely broke...Shall we do the deal ourselves? No one, and least of all he, should know that we're in on this.
It would be a long trip indeed if one stopped at every attractive town or village, at every beautiful motif —
I am like a child at school. The new page is always going to be neatly written, and then pouf! . . . a blot. I'm still making blots . . . and I am 40 years old.
All these celebrated men were in agreement in saying I should persevere and that notwithstanding my being forty years old it was still not too late.
Art is harmony. Harmony is the analogy of contrary elements and the analogy of similar elements of tone, color and line...
True relaxation, which would do me the world of good, does not exist for me.
I am distressed, almost discouraged, and fatigued to the point of feeling slightly ill. What I am doing is no good, and in spite of your confidence I am very much afraid that my efforts will all lead to nothing.
. . . this feeling of being at someone else's mercy weighs on me tremendously, and when such circumstances are prolonged I cannot find delight in art. . .
We’re in the presence of an unspoiled creature with the instincts of a wild beast. With Gauguin, blood and sex have the edge over ambition.