The confusion, that one so young – me it seems, because I remember – should be so damaged, that no one looked out for me or cared. And even now, I grin and mock myself out of fear. But I hold the truth aloft, a golden torch, sacred, because no one else dares to.

I’m going to get a pair of wire-snips, and I’ve also started a new campaign to have blank CDs on jukeboxes so you can play the silence.

Bowie and McCartney arrived, and the biscuits and caviare started and I left immediately. I don’t like shouting across rooms, with people in shiny suits who look like used-car salesmen.

I think that the mythology of Van Gogh’s life, and the beauty of his paintings, is unstoppable.

Artists who don’t paint aren’t artists.

I don’t spend a lot of time working if I can help it.

I make sure I make a painting – that’s my job. And I cook the Sunday dinner.

I’ve always liked New York, as I like towns with an edge and New York has a European feel, so when I came to play music here in the ’80s it was a surprise to me.

I’ve not been an admirer of contemporary music since punk rock went off the boil in 1977, but once a year I’ll listen to ‘Spiral Scratch’ by the Buzzcocks, or ‘Hippy Hippy Shake’ by the Swinging Blue Jeans. Otherwise, I can put up with Chopin or shakuhachi flute in the background.

It is an artist’s duty to be on the wrong end of the see-saw.