On the worst days, I don't feel like an artist.

I get up about four times a night and go back to sleep, or not. Then I swill tea around 8 a.m. I answer e-mail, while I stall thinking about whatever scares me.

The desperate things seem to require attention, the lovely things seem to elicit celebration. If I had to choose, I would go to the awful in the hope that doing something could yield a happier result.

Turn soft and lovely anytime you have the chance.

It's good to be employable, but I hope to show the truth. The paintings seem true because nobody wants me to do them.

At times your unconsciousness is truer than your conscious mind

Killing is unavoidable but is nothing to be proud of