The Longer You Look At

A Moment Of Complete Happiness Never Occurs In The Creation Of A Work Of Art. The Promise Of It Is Felt In The Act Of Creation But Disappears Towards The Completion Of The Work. For It Is Then The Painter Realises That It Is Only A Picture He Is Painting. Until Then He Had Almost Dared To Hope The Picture Might Spring To Life.

The Painter Must Give A Completely Free Rein To Any Feeling Or Sensations He May Have And Reject Nothing To Which He Is Naturally Drawn.

And, Since The Model He Faithfully Copies Is Not Going To Be Hung Up Next To The Picture, Since The Picture Is Going To Be There On Its Own, It Is Of No Interest Whether It Is An Accurate Copy Of The Model.

Were It Not For This [dissatisfaction], The Perfect Painting Might Be Painted, On The Completion Of Which The Painter Could Retire. It Is This Great Insufficiency That Drives Him On. The Process Of Creation Becomes Necessary To The Painter Perhaps More Than It Is In The Picture. The Process Is In Fact Habit-forming.

I Remember Francis Bacon Would Say That He Felt He Was Giving Art What He Thought It Previously Lacked. With Me, It's What Yeats Called The Fascination With What's Difficult. I'm Only Trying To Do What I Can't Do.