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

It is possible to make a living thing, not a diagram of what I have been thinking: to posit with paint something living, something that changes each day.

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

There is something mysterious in this work that I do not ever what to discover.

In my experience a painting is not made with colors and paint at all. I don't know what a painting is; who knows what sets off even the desire to paint?

Painting is an illusion, a piece of magic, so what you see is not what you see. I don't know what a painting is; who knows what sets off even the desire to paint? It might be things, thoughts, a memory, sensations, which have nothing to do directly with painting itself. They can come from anything and anywhere.

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.