We Are Image-makers And Image-ridden... We Work

Painting Seems Like Impossibility, With Only A Sign Now And Then Of Its Own Light.

I Go To The Studio Everyday Because One Day I May Go And The Angel Will Be There. What If I Don't Go And The Angel Comes?

Do I Really Believe That? I Make A Mark, A Few Strokes, I Argue With Myself, Not Do I Like Or Not, But Is It True Or Not? Is That What I Mean, Is That What I Want?

That's What I Mean By Something Grips In A Canvas. The Moment That Happens You Are Then Sucked Into The Whole Thing. Like Some Kind Of Rhythm.

There's Some Mysterious Process At Work Here, Which I Don't Even Want To Understand.