The painting is not on a surface, but on a plane which is imagined. It moves in a mind. It is not there physically at all. It is an illusion, a piece of magic, so that what you see is not what you see.

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

I am a night painter, so when I come into the studio the next morning the delirium is over.

Usually I am on a work for a long stretch, until a moment arrives when the air of the arbitrary vanishes, and the paint falls into positions that feel destined.

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.

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

To paint is a possessing rather than a picturing.