‘During a walk in the garden I pick flower after flower and amass them in the crook of my arm, gathering them randomly one after another. I return to the house with the idea of painting these flowers. After having arranged them in my own way, what a deception; all of their charm was lost in the arranging. What could have happened?
The unconscious arrangement made during the picking, through the pleasure that prompted me to move from one flower to the next was replaced by a wilful arrangement derived from reminiscences of long dead bouquets that left in my memory a charm of yesterday with which I now burdened the new bouquet.
Renoir once said to me: “When I have arranged a bouquet for the purpose of painting it, I always turn to the side I did not plan.”’