Usually I Draw In Relation To My

All These Troubles Revolve Around The Irritable Mutual Dependence Of Life And Art - With Their Need And Contempt For One Another. Of Necessity, To Create Is A Temporary State And Cannot Be Possessed.

Then You Learn About Composition, You Learn About Old Masters, You Form Certain Ideas About Structure. But The Inhuman Activity Of Trying To Make Some Kind Of Jump Or Leap, Where , The Painting Is Always Saying, 'what Do You Want From Me? I Can Only Be A Painting.' You Have To Go From Part To Part, But You Shouldn't See Yourself Go From Part To Part, That's The Whole Point.

No Good To Paint In The Head - What Happens Is What Happens When You Put The Paint Down - You Can Only Hope That You Are Alert - Ready - To See. What Joy It Is For Paint To Become A Thing - A Being. Believe In This Miracle - It Is Your Only Hope. To Will This Transformation Is Not Possible. Only A Slow Maturation Can Prepare The Hand And Eye To Become Quicker Than Ever. Ideas About Art Don't Matter. They Collapse Anyway In Front Of The Painting.

Many Works Of The Past Complete What They Announce They Are Going To Do, To Our Increasing Boredom. Certain Others Plague Me Because I Cannot Follow Their Intentions. I Can Tell At A Glance What Fabritius Is Doing, But I Am Spending My Life Trying To Find Out What Rembrandt Was Up To.

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.