That's What I Mean By

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.

Painting Is An Illusion, A Piece Of Magic, So What You See Is Not What You See. I Don't Know What A Painting Is; Who Knows What Sets Off Even The Desire To Paint? It Might Be Things, Thoughts, A Memory, Sensations, Which Have Nothing To Do Directly With Painting Itself. They Can Come From Anything And Anywhere.

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.

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.

I Should Like To Paint Like An Man Who Has Never Seen A Painting, But This Man -myself - Lives In A Museum.