Thomson's small oil sketches of the last years palpitate and throb. They are as direct in attack as a punch in the nose.

Made up of corallitic accretions and painful increments, lit on rare occasions by bolts of revelation, and then stuffed behind the wainscotting to grope in the mouse-turd dust, art is the equivalent of athlete's foot, at best an exquisite itch, at worst an excuse to stop walking. On the emotional side, it is either masturbation with a hockey glove or a night beneath the sliding moon that shames Eros.

Thomson's small oil sketches of the last years palpitate and throb. They are as direct in attack as a punch in the nose.

I am interested in doing something that cannot be explained.

With love I draw what I hate.

Painting is still to a great extent dominated by a central image; corners in most cases are like uninvited guests at a party, uneasy and unattended.

Any artist who doesn't think he's the best should quit.