He loved to paint large figures, full of light, but not merely made up of lights and cast shadows, like the impressionists; rather definite figures that had a certain luminous quality, like some of Michael Angelo's people.

And these he fitted into a landscape, in what he thought true proportion.
He worked a great deal from memory, using everybody he knew.

He believed firmly in his work, that it was good and valuable.

In spite of fits of depression, shrinking, everything, he believed in his work.
He was twenty-four when he said his first confident thing to his mother.
"Mother," he said, "I s'll make a painter that they'll attend to." She sniffed in her quaint fashion.

It was like a half-pleased shrug of the shoulders.
"Very well, my boy, we'll see," she said.
"You shall see, my pigeon! You see if you're not swanky one of these days!" "I'm quite content, my boy," she smiled.
"But you'll have to alter.