I'm a fine artist working in a commercial arena, so that's my cross to bear

I'm irresponsible to my career in order to paint. Because painting is obsessive. I forget to eat. I forget to sleep.

I have one piece of music, since 1997, and I don't see it having lyrics. Where does it go in this world? So I haven't recorded it.

My parents told me I'd point to a bed of flowers and say 'Pink. Pretty,' before I knew any other words.

You've got to shake your fists at lightning now, you've got to roar like forest fire You've got to spread your light like blazes all across the sky They're going to aim the hoses on you, show 'em you won't expire Not till you burn up every passion, not even when you die Come on now, you've got to try, if you're feeling contempt, well then you tell it If you're tired of the silent night, Jesus, well then you yell it Condemned to wires and hammers, strike every chord that you feel That broken trees and elephant ivories conceal

The considerations of a corporation, especially now, have nothing to do with art or music.

My first four albums covered the usual youth problems - looking for love in all the wrong places - while the next five are basically about being in your 30s.