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.

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

Look at any inspired painting. It's like a gong sounding; it puts you in a state of reverberation.

Probably the most potent desire for a painter, an image-maker, is to see it. To see what the mind can think and imagine, to realize it for oneself, through oneself, as concretely as possible.

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.