In My Experience A Painting Is Not

Do I Really Believe That? I Make A Mark, A Few Strokes, I Argue With Myself, Not Do I Like Or Not, But Is It True Or Not? Is That What I Mean, Is That What I Want?

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.

Sometimes I Scrape Off A Lot. You Have On The Floor, Like Cow Dung In The Field, This Big Glob Of Paint... And It's Just A Lot Of Inert Matter, Inert Paint. Then I Look Back At The Canvas, And It's Not Inert - It's Active, Moving And Living.

Painting Seems Like Impossibility, With Only A Sign Now And Then Of Its Own Light.

I Am A Night Painter, So When I Come Into The Studio The Next Morning The Delirium Is Over.