When I look back on everything I've done, it all somehow makes sense to me. But it doesn't make sense when you're actually doing it.

It's weird making a drawing of painting. I start to realize that charcoal is this incredibly fragile material. I'm making images of paintings out of dust.

I can't come up with the titles. My wife hates my titles. She doesn't even want to know about them.

The ebb and flow as an artist is a bizarre experience, for sure. I was lucky enough to become successful pretty young - in late '79, 1980 - with a body of work that got recognized and became an archetype.

The great thing about doing a show in New York is that you can work until the night before.

I've been dealing with epic images, and I realized all of a sudden that I grew up in the age of epics.

I think the pursuit of trying to understand things is really a critical issue. I see the issue of life and death in everything I do. I'm trying to find answers. It can be quite frustrating.