I Have A Timetable, But

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.

My Work Is Purely Autobiographical... It Is About Myself And My Surroundings.

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.

I Always Felt That My Work Hadn't Much To Do With Art; My Admirations For Other Art Had Very Little Room To Show Themselves In My Work Because I Hoped That If I Concentrated Enough The Intensity Of Scrutiny Alone Would Force Life Into The Pictures. I Ignored The Fact That Art, After All, Derives From Art. Now I Realize That This Is The Case.

When I Look At A Body It Gives Me Choice Of What To Put In A Painting, What Will Suit Me And What Won't