We Are Image-makers And Image-ridden... We Work

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

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.

But You Begin To Feel As You Go On Working That Unless Painting Proves Its Right To Exist By Being Critical And Self-judging, It Has No Reason To Exist At All - Or Is Not Even Possible. The Canvas Is A Court Where The Artist Is Prosecutor, Defendant, Jury And Judge. Art Without A Trial Disappears At A Glance.

To Paint Is Always To Start At The Beginning Again, Yet Being Unable To Avoid The Familiar Arguments About What You See Yourself Painting.

There Comes A Point When The Paint Doesn't Feel Like Paint. I Don't Know Why. Some Mysterious Thing Happens. I Think You Have All Experienced It... What Counts Is That The Paint Should Really Disappear, Otherwise It's Craft.