When We Describe A Process, Or Make

These Pictures Possibly Give Rise To Questions Of Political Content Or Historical Truth. Neither Interests Me In This Instance. And Although Even My Motivation For Painting Them Is Probably Of No Significance, I Am Trying To Put A Name To It Here, As An Articulation, Parallel To The Pictures, As It Were, Of My Disquiet And Of My Opinion.

Of Course I Constantly Despair At My Own Incapacity, At The Impossibility Of Ever Accomplishing Anything, Of Painting A Valid, True Picture Or Even Knowing What Such A Thing Ought To Look Like. But Then I Always Have The Hope That, If I Persevere, It Might One Day Happen. And This Hope Is Nurtured Every Time Something Appears, A Scattered, Partial, Initial Hint Of Something Which Reminds Me Of What I Long For, Or Which Conveys A Hint Of It – Although Often Enough I Have Been Fooled By A Momentary Glimpse That Then Vanishes, Leaving Behind Only The Usual Thing.

I Would Like To Try To Understand What Is. We Know Very Little, And I Am Trying To Do It By Creating Analogies. Almost Every Work Of Art Is An Analogy.

A Student Researching Into My Work Has Actually Traced The Newspapers And Magazines Where I Found Theses Images And Has Found Out That Many Of Them Illustrate A Collection Of Gruesome Stories, Murders And Suicides Which Contrast With The Images Used. There Is A Contrast Between The Message Carried By The Text And That Suppressed By The Illustration.

What Attracted Me About My Mirrors Was The Idea Of Having Nothing Manipulated In Them. A Piece Of Bought Mirror. Just Hung There, Without Any Addition, To Operate Immediately And Directly. Even At The Risk Of Being Boring. Mere Demonstration. The Mirrors, And Even More The Panes Of Glass, Were Also Certainly Directed Against Duchamp, Against His Large Glass.