There's some mysterious process at work here, which I don't even want to understand.

Frustration is one of the great things in art. Satisfaction is nothing.

I go to the studio everyday because one day I may go and the Angel will be there. What if I don't go and the Angel comes?

Painting seems like some kind of peculiar miracle that I need to have again and again.

I should like to paint like an man who has never seen a painting, but this man -myself - lives in a museum.

I do not see why the loss of faith in the known image and symbol in our time should be celebrated as a freedom. It is a loss from which we suffer, and this pathos motivates modern painting and poetry at its heart.

You know, comments about style always seem strange to me - 'why do you work in this style, or in that style' - as if you had a choice in the matter... What you're doing is trying to stay alive and continue and not die.