The canvas you are working on modifies the previous ones in an unending, baffling chain which never seems to finish. What sympathy is demanded of the viewer? He is asked to ‘see’ the future links.

All these troubles revolve around the irritable mutual dependence of life and art – with their need and contempt for one another. Of necessity, to create is a temporary state and cannot be possessed...

I feel more as if I’m shaping something with my hands. I feel as if I’ve always wanted to get to that state. Like a blind man in a dark room had some clay, what would he make? I end up with 2 or 3 forms on a canvas, but it gets very physical for me.

That’s what I mean by something grips in a canvas. The moment that happens you are then sucked into the whole thing. Like some kind of rhythm.

What is seen and called the picture is what remains – an evidence. Even as one travels in painting toward a state of ‘unfreedom’ where only certain things can happen, unaccountably the unknown and free must appear.

I’m not interested in painting; I’m not interested in making a picture. Then what the hell am I interested in? I must be interested in this process.

Painting and sculpture are very archaic forms. It’s the only thing left in our industrial society where an individual alone can make something with not just his own hands, but brains, imagination, heart maybe.

There’s some mysterious process at work here, which I don’t even want to understand.

Look at any inspired painting. It’s like a gong sounding; it puts you in a state of reverberation.

In my experience a painting is not made with colors and paint at all. I don’t know what a painting is; who knows what sets off even the desire to paint?