One Could Go On For Ever As

All My Work Keeps Going Like A Pendulum; It Seems To Swing Back To Something I Was Involved With Earlier, Or It Moves Between Horizontality And Verticality, Circularlity, Or A Composite Of Them. For Me, I Suppose, That Change Is The Only Constant.

I Went Into My Own Black-out Period Which Lasted Two Or Three Years Where The Canvases Would Simply Build Up Until They'd Get Like Stone And It Was Always Just A Gray Mess. The Image Wouldn't Emerge, But I Worked Pretty Regularly. I Was Fighting To Find I Knew Not What, But I Could No Longer Stay With What I Had.

Painting... In Which The Inner And The Outer Man Are Inseparable, Transcends Technique, Transcends Subject And Moves Into The Realm Of The Inevitable.

Painting, For Me, When It Really 'happens,' Is As Miraculous As Any Natural Phenomenon - As Say, A Lettuce Leaf. By 'happens,' I Mean The Painting In Which The Inner Aspect Of Man And His Outer Aspects Interlock.

My Own Image Of My Work Is That I No Sooner Settle Into Something Than A Break Occurs. These Breaks Are Always Painful And Depressing But Despite Them I See That There's A Consistency That Holds Out, But Is Hard To Define.