You Can Compare It To Dreams: You

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.

The Political Topicality Of My October Paintings Means Almost Nothing To Me, But In Many Reviews It Is The First Or Only Thing That Arouses Interest, And The Response To The Pictures Varies According To Current Political Circumstance. I Find This Rather A Distraction.

All Photographs Are Far More Important Than Any Painting.

That Was A Piece I Did In 1963 With Konrad Lueg In A Department Store, In The Furniture Department. It Was Announced In Some Papers As An Exhibition Opening, But The People Who Came Didn't Know That It Was To Be A Sort Of Happening. I Don't Think It Is Quite Right That It Has Become So Famous Anyhow. It Was Just A Lot Of Fun, And The Word Itself, Capitalist Realism, Hit Just Right. But It Wasn't Such A Big Deal.