Art Is The Highest Form Of Hope.

That Was A Piece I Did In 1963 With Konrad Lueg In A Department Store, In The Furniture Department. It Was Announced In Some Papers As An Exhibition Opening, But The People Who Came Didn't Know That It Was To Be A Sort Of Happening. I Don't Think It Is Quite Right That It Has Become So Famous Anyhow. It Was Just A Lot Of Fun, And The Word Itself, Capitalist Realism, Hit Just Right. But It Wasn't Such A Big Deal.

You Can Compare It To Dreams: You Have A Very Specific And Individual Pictorial Language That You Either Accept Or That You Can Translate Rashly And Wrongly. Of Course, You Can Ignore Dreams, But That Would Be A Shame, Because They're Useful.

When We Describe A Process, Or Make Out An Invoice, Or Photograph A Tree, We Create Models; Without Them We Would Know Nothing Of Reality And Would Be Animals.

I Like Everything That Has No Style: Dictionaries, Photographs, Nature, Myself And My Paintings. (because Style Is Violent, And I Am Not Violent.)

When I First Painted A Number Of Canvases Grey All Over (about Eight Years Ago), I Did So Because I Did Not Know What To Paint, Or What There Might Be To Paint: So Wretched A Start Could Lead To Nothing Meaningful. As Time Went On, However, I Observed Differences Of Quality Among The Grey Surfaces - And Also That These Betrayed Nothing Of The Destructive Motivation That Lay Behind Them. The Pictures Began To Teach Me. By Generalizing A Personal Dilemma, They Resolved It.