Criticism on my works is like this: you've worked hard all of your life, you went to Oxford, and you've done this and that, and you're an art critic. Your job is to unravel the "secret" or whatever, and you come across an entity like me. It's going to piss you off. Because there's no great secret, what you see is what you get, and anyone can understand what I'm doing. So, it's almost like I make this critic-person redundant, just by my attitude, and they resent me for that.

Maybe I don't believe things myself, as well. Truth is such a transient thing...

The soul will always do what it needs to do.

My influences were from Europe from between 1900 and 1945. My favorite artists were Egon Schiele or Edvard Munch. I wasn't interested in contemporary art at all.

People don't remember. Revenge is sweet.

I found that life has to be edited to continue.

I feel physically ill if I don't make work, I don't create. I don't feel very good. I don't feel right, I feel wrong.