What a strange thing is memory, and hope; one looks backward, the other forward; one is of today, the other of tomorrow. Memory is history recorded in our brain, memory is a painter, it paints pictures of the past and of the day.

. . . daydreams, as it were . . . I look out the window sometimes to seek the color of the shadows and the different greens in the trees, but when I get ready to paint I just close my eyes and imagine a scene.

If I didn't start painting, I would have raised chickens.

I have written my life in small sketches, a little today, a little yesterday . . . I look back on my life a good day's work, it was done and I feel satisfied with it. I made the best out of what life offered.

A primitive artist is an amateur whose work sells.