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

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

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?

But you begin to feel as you go on working that unless painting proves its right to exist by being critical and self-judging, it has no reason to exist at all - or is not even possible. The canvas is a court where the artist is prosecutor, defendant, jury and judge. Art without a trial disappears at a glance.

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?

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.

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