Painting Is Another Form Of Thinking.

With A Brush You Have Control. The Paint Goes On The Brush And You Make The Mark. From Experience You Know Exactly What Will Happen. With The Squeegee You Lose Control.

Of Course I Constantly Despair At My Own Incapacity, At The Impossibility Of Ever Accomplishing Anything, Of Painting A Valid, True Picture Or Even Knowing What Such A Thing Ought To Look Like. But Then I Always Have The Hope That, If I Persevere, It Might One Day Happen. And This Hope Is Nurtured Every Time Something Appears, A Scattered, Partial, Initial Hint Of Something Which Reminds Me Of What I Long For, Or Which Conveys A Hint Of It – Although Often Enough I Have Been Fooled By A Momentary Glimpse That Then Vanishes, Leaving Behind Only The Usual Thing.

I Never Worked At Painting As If It Were A Job; It Was Always Out Of Interest Or For Fun, A Desire To Try Something.

I Like Everything That Has No Style: Dictionaries, Photographs, Nature, Myself And My Paintings. (because Style Is Violent, And I Am Not Violent.)

This Superficial Blurring Has Something To Do With The Incapacity I Have Just Mentioned. I Can Make No Statement About Reality Clearer Than My Own Relationship To Reality; And This Has A Great Deal To Do With Imprecision, Uncertainty, Transience, Incompleteness, Or Whatever. But This Doesn't Explain The Pictures. At Best It Explains What Led To Their Being Painted.